192 Days Without My Brother
by Amber815
Summary: Companion fic to my story "The Gift" - Fíli POV. For the first time in his life, Fíli feels alone. And that scares him even more than the new responsibilities placed onto his shoulders as young King under the Mountain. But even in those dark days after the battle, there's hope to be found. If only he has the courage to let himself reach for it. AU, Fíli/Sigrid.
1. Prologue - Day 1

**A/N**: This is a companion fic to my Kíli/Tauriel story "The Gift" and covers Fíli's POV. I recommend reading "The Gift" first, for not all references to it are explained in detail. If you don't mind the occasional plot hole, though, it is possible to read this story as a stand-alone, I suppose.

This story was prompted by **Marvelmykiss17**'s review to "The Gift" and has basically been writing itself over the past couple of weeks. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I currently enjoy writing it. It's a WIP, but I can promise you that I will finish it before too long - it's all mapped out already and "just" needs to be written down.

BTW, this is not going to have 192 chapters. Not every day gets one. Also, they vary in length quite a bit.

**Genre**: Family, Romance, Angst, Hurt/Comfort

**Pairing**: Fíli/Sigrid, implied Kíli/Tauriel

**Rating**: M for sexual themes and content (It will be a while until we get to that, though).

**Disclaimer**: I do not own The Hobbit or any of its characters. I'm not writing this for profit, but merely for fun and because the voices in my head won't stop talking until I write down what they have to say.

**192 ****Days Without My Brother**

**Day 1**

On the first day, he sleeps. And on the second, and the third, and the fourth. He sleeps for a whole week, his body as still as the statues of his forefathers lining the halls in the greatest kingdom of Dwarves.

During those days his mind is in a safe place where nothing can touch it, protected as it is by the depth of his repose. And yet – even through those heavy shrouds of oblivion, he is aware of the presence of others around him, knows that they care for him and are waiting for him to wake up.

Somehow he feels, though, that something is wrong. No, not wrong. _Missing_. Like a part of himself has gotten lost somewhere along the way.

He tells himself that he needs to wake up, needs to find that missing piece.

And so, on the eighth day, he opens his eyes.


	2. Day 8

**Day 8**

"Still nothing?"

"Nope."

"Really? Nothing at all?"

"Nothing at all. Not even the slightest twitch of the pinky toe."

"That is... less than ideal."

"Well put." A pause. "Do you reckon he might be... You know...?"

"Do I reckon that fall he took might have turned his brains to mush? I suppose right now I believe anything to be possible. After all, he shouldn't even still _be_ here."

A prolonged silence.

"Maybe it would be better for him to stay like that. You know. Considering the... outcome."

"Don't say that." A harsher tone. Too many terrible things have come to pass already. "We cannot lose him, too."

A defeated sigh. "Maybe we already have."

XxXxXxXxXxXxXx

The light, dim as it is, hurt his eyes like the brightest of suns. His throat is on fire.

"Water."

Is that sound really his voice? Mahal, he sounds terrible. Worse than Dwalin when he's had one too many and attempts to sing melancholic ballads.

A face instantly appears in his line of sight. Ori, smiling like he cannot quite believe his eyes.

"Fíli? Are you alright?"

"He's not, obviously."

Another voice, another face. Dori, scowling at his younger brother before turning his kind eyes to Fíli, holding a cup up for him to see.

"Here, this is going to make you feel better. Take it slow, though."

With Dori's hand supporting the back of his neck, Fíli manages a mouthful of water. It hurts going down, but still he finds himself craving more.

"What happened?" he croaks, still not in full possession of his senses. Where is he? His surroundings are unfamiliar – a high-ceilinged room, walls of stone. There's the flicker of a fire somewhere close by, but still Fíli can feel a coldness in the air that seeps straight into his bones. He shivers.

Dori and Ori exchange a look that Fíli does not like at all. Not because of the worry reflected in it. Whatever the extent of his injuries, he's surely had worse. No, the thing that causes dread to settle in his stomach is the considerable amount of pity he sees in his friends' eyes.

"What do you remember?" Dori finally asks, suddenly not quite meeting his gaze anymore.

Fíli struggles to sort through the haze which still clouds his mind, trying to pick up the scattered pieces of his memories.

"Erebor," he finally says, the strangeness of his quarters now beginning to make sense. "We made it to Erebor and... and Thorin... he... no, that doesn't make sense, does it..."

He pauses, momentarily confused by some of the images assaulting his mind. "A battle. We fought a battle, didn't we? First... first against the Elves, but then we fought _with_ them..." When the final piece of the puzzle falls into place, he furtively tries to sit up, struggling against Ori's and Dori's combined effort to hold him still. "Ravenhill, it was a trap," he exclaims, his voice nearly faltering from putting too much strain on it too quickly. "Kíli and I... we got separated, and..."

And that's when he realizes what has been bothering him all along. "Where _is_ Kíli?" he asks, trying to keep his breathing level. It's not a rarity for one of the Durin brothers to get hurt. Usually it's Kíli who is befallen by some kind of mishap, but Fíli can remember enough instances where it has been him that's been wounded or has fallen ill. In all those instances, though, Kíli has been at his side. That's what they do, right? So where in Mahal's name is his little brother, now?

Another glance between Dori and Ori. "We should fetch Balin, I believe," Dori says, an uncommon tightness around his eyes and his mouth.

This time, Fíli does sit up, his hand closing around the older Dwarf's wrist in an iron grasp. "Tell me," he commands, his tone sounding dangerous even to his own ears.

"I—" Dori begins, but then falters, looking to his younger brother for help.

Ori sighs and reaches for something out of Fíli's line of sight. He does not look Fíli in the eye as he places a sword across Fíli's lap, the firelight reflecting off the smooth, polished blade. Fíli lets his eyes roam along the length of the elegant, deadly weapon, taking in the small, achingly familiar details which identify it as the sword Kíli has chosen for himself shortly after their arrival at Erebor.

"No," Fíli hears himself say, knowing without a doubt what his friends mean to convey to him by presenting him with the sword. "No," he says again more firmly this time, "he's not... he's not _gone_. You're wrong."

Another look of pity shared by the two brothers at his bedside. "I'm afraid he is," Ori says gently, reaching out to place a comforting hand on Fíli's shoulder. He shakes it off.

"No, you don't understand," he says again. "This is Kíli's blade, yes, but that doesn't mean anything. You know him – he fights with whatever he can get his hands on. He probably abandoned it for something bigger, something better."

Yes, it all makes sense now. He feels laughter bubble up in his chest – Kíli, always the trickster, has fooled them all once again. "See?" he says. "You've made a simple mistake. I don't know where you found this or what you think you know, but Kíli is just fine. He always is."

"Not this time, I'm afraid," Ori says, his eyes shining with unshed tears as he looks at Fíli. "The sword was found on Ravenhill, together with parts of Kíli's armor." He swallows. "And blood. A lot of it."

There is a tight feeling in Fíli's chest, but he breathes through it. "Then he must still be out there. Aren't people looking for him? He'll turn up any minute, you'll see."

He has been scooting closer to the edge of the bed while speaking and is now making to get up. If Kíli needs him, he will come for him, no matter how dizzy his head or how weak his limbs. Dori puts a hand on his chest and Fíli is unsure if it is meant to steady him or to hold him back.

"Fíli," the older Dwarf says, "it has been a week now. A whole week. Even if he is somewhere out there, amidst all that rubble... The blood loss and the cold – he couldn't possibly..."

The room is moving and it takes Fíli a while to realize that is because he is shaking his head rigorously.

"No," he says, "no, he's... There is no way you can know that it's even his blood. He's alive. I'm sure of it."

Even as he says the words, his own arguments are beginning to sound feeble, pathetic to his own ears.

"Then why hasn't he come back?" Ori asks, his eyes filled with pain.

_Yes, why hasn't he?_

"He's gone," Dori whispers. "I'm so, so sorry."

"No." This time Fíli pushes past his friends' restraining hold and onto his feet. "I have to go and look for him. He... he needs me."

He looks around wildly, clutching his bedsheets with one hand to keep himself from toppling over. There's something wrong with his legs – they're not obeying him the way they are supposed to, but he won't let that stop him. If he has to crawl back to Ravenhill on his belly, then so be it.

"Where is Thorin?" he asks, even as his vision starts to become foggy again. "He'll know what to do. Knows that this is just the kind of thing that would happen to Kíli..."

Dori, one arm looped around Fíli's waist in an effort to keep him upright, freezes and Ori looks up at the blonde Durin brother with fearful, sad eyes.

"What?" Fíli asks. "What now?"

There are actual tears spilling from Ori's eyes now and Fíli pushes away from Dori, staggering a few steps into the room. He whirls around to face the two brothers at his bedside, both of them a picture of sadness and grief.

"No," he exclaims for what feels like the hundredth time today. "No, he can't. You cannot... not _Thorin_..."

"He defeated the Pale Orc," Dori says, his voice so low that it barely carries above the buzz in Fíli's ears, "but was injured too gravely in the process. He died in Bilbo's arms."

Fíli finds that he cannot breathe. Also, the room is moving again, but not from side to side this time. The floor appears to be closing in on him and right before everything is plunged into blackness, he hears a scream, like the sound of a wounded animal with nothing to lose.

_Is that me? _he wonders just as his cheek hits stone.


	3. Day 9

**Day 9**

When Fíli wakes up on the ninth day, he has a splitting headache. For a few blissful moments he assumes that it might be the result of a night of heavy drinking and Mahal knows what other mischief he and his brethren might have gotten up to. Even the dull pain in his jaw and around his right eye fall neatly into that logic – a harmless brawl or a drunken tumble, probably.

But then his mind begins to catch up with his body and memories of the day before start to assault him. Thorin – dead. Kíli – gone without a trace and presumed dead by everyone but him.

He feels his throat constrict with panic and leans over the side of his narrow bed to heave into the bed pan sitting on the floor next to it. There isn't an awful lot that his body can rid itself of, but he continues to shiver long after he has sunken back into his pillows, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes, trying in vain to keep the tears at bay.

If he cries, he acknowledges that they are gone. If he cries, it will all become real.

"Better out than in, laddie, better out than in." A comforting pat on his shoulder. A glance to his right reveals Balin, sitting in a chair next to his bed.

For a split second Fíli wonders if the white-haired Dwarf is referring to his tears or his pathetic attempt at vomiting, but then he feels his face crumple and he does not resist when Balin leans over him to pull him into a slightly awkward embrace.

"It's not supposed to be like this," Fíli manages between sobs. "I should not still be here when they... when they're _not_."

"I know, I know," Balin mutters, continuing to pat his back until the worst of his sobs have subsided. He carefully helps Fíli to lower himself back onto his mattress, but remains perched on the edge of the bed. "For what it's worth," he says, "I do believe that there must be a very good reason why you are still with us. For you to have survived the ordeal you were put through... some very high powers must have been at work to make that possible. Some might say it's a miracle – others might say it's fate."

Fíli scrutinizes the older Dwarf for a long moment, but finds nothing except genuine concern and compassion in his gaze. "Tell me what happened," he finally urges Balin. "And don't spare me the details."

Balin sighs, clearly not pleased with his task, but sinks back onto his chair and begins his narration of the events during the battle after Thorin had sent his nephews ahead to scout the watchtower – Bilbo's unexpected appearance, his warning (which, sadly, came to late), Dwalin, Thorin, and Bilbo looking on in horror as Azog stabbed Fíli.

"Both Bilbo and Dwalin could have sworn that you were dead even before you hit the ground," Balin says almost apologetically. "And even if you weren't – that fall you took..."

For the first time since waking up, Fíli takes stock of his injuries – and there are plenty, it would appear. Raising his hand to his head, he gingerly fingers the thick bandage wrapped around it, following it to the back of his skull. He winces. No wonder his head is killing him – this clearly is more than a little bump.

"As I said, you fell quite the distance when Azog tossed you off that tower." Balin's look is one of sympathy.

Fíli nods, his hands still busy tracing the numerous bruises and scratches on his face, his arms, his ribcage. Another bandage is wrapped squarely around his torso, covering a good portion of it. He has no clear memory of being stabbed by the Pale Orc – all he remembers is a pain unlike any he has ever known before and then blackness.

"I should be dead," he states matter-of-factly, finding it hard to wrap his mind around the fact that it is _him _they're discussing. He's in quite a lot of discomfort, yes, but very much alive when he really shouldn't be. He lifts his puzzled gaze to Balin. "How am I still here?"

Balin frowns. "I wish I had an answer for you, laddie, but I don't. All I know is that when Bofur and Bombur found you, they were certain you were dead. They carried you to where Thorin had fallen, but as they laid you down beside him it was as if a shadow was suddenly lifted off you. And you were breathing again."

"Just like that?" Fíli asks, his brows drawn together with incredulity.

"Just like that," Balin confirms. "As I said, some call it a miracle. Bofur is already perpetuating a new nickname for you – Fíli the Deathless."

Balin attempts a smile, but Fíli finds that he cannot reciprocate it.

"What about you, though?" he asks Balin. "What do you call it?"

The white-haired Dwarf looks at his hands folded in his lap and takes a moment before answering.

"I, too, can only make guesses," he says. "But I think that maybe your life was spared because you still have a purpose to fulfill. Now that—" his voice falters for the briefest of moments, "—now that Thorin isn't here for that anymore."

Fíli closes his eyes. Right, there's that.

As if it isn't terrible enough that his uncle is dead and his brother missing – not dead, _missing_ – he is now expected to take Thorin's place.

"I'm not sure I can do this," he says through clenched teeth. "Not... not without Kíli here. I need to find him, first." He opens his eyes and looks at Balin who is gazing at him with grave seriousness. "Will you help me find him?"

Balin leans back in his chair, slowly expelling the air from his lungs. "I am not sure that there is anything left for us to do, anything we haven't tried. We've looked _everywhere_."

"Then look again," Fíli says stubbornly. "What is the last thing that is known of him?"

There has to be _something_. A loophole, a blank spot, anything. Fíli is willing to grasp at any straw, as long as it holds a possibility for his brother to have somehow made it out of this whole mess.

"He was—" Balin begins, but then stops, clearly considering whether the truth is too much for Fíli to bear. "He saw you fall," he continues eventually, even though the words obviously pain him. "He... I think he was beside himself with grief and something in him snapped. The last thing that we know with certainty is that Dwalin, Thorin and Bilbo saw him go after the Pale Orc and his minions by himself. They tried to follow, but were attacked with such severity that he had disappeared among the ruins before they could get to him."

Fíli tries not to let the image of his brother, heartbroken and desperate, going into this impossible fight by himself get to him. He needs to keep a clear head.

"What if they took him? What if that's why there is no trace of him?"

Balin's mouth forms a hard line under his beard. He is not convinced. "Azog had set himself the goal of wiping out Thorin's entire line. I'm afraid I do not see why Kíli would be kept alive."

"But Azog is dead, isn't he?" Fíli argues. "Maybe some of his minions went rogue after that. Maybe they were hoping for some kind of bargain in exchange for Kíli's life."

"No demands for ransom have been made," Balin says, but Fíli can see that he has managed to ignite at least a tiny glimmer of hope in the older Dwarf's eyes.

"There is still time," he presses on. Balin holds the greatest influence among his brethren, and if Fíli can convince _him_, the others will follow. "They would need to find a place to hide themselves first, lick their wounds."

Balin considers this and Fíli finds himself waiting anxiously for his judgment. When Balin leans forward and places his elbows on his knees, looking at him attentively, Fíli knows that he has won.

"What course of action do you propose?" Balin asks, and Fíli feels his heart, broken as it is, give an excited little thud.

"Have as many of our men as we can spare continue searching the ruins and the area around them. Have them turn over every stone," he says, barely realizing how naturally giving those orders comes to him. "And dispatch Nori and Bifur to track the goblins that fled the site of the battle. See what they can find out."

Out of their whole lot, Nori and Bifur were the sneakiest two – not exactly burglar material, but their tracking skills were more than adequate to the task and they were good at making themselves unseen if they wanted to.

Balin looks at him for another long moment and then nods, rising from his chair.

"As you wish," he says, and Fíli realizes with a stab of surprise that Balin is not addressing him as a friend any longer, but as his king instead. After a moment, though, the white-haired Dwarf's eyes soften by a fraction. "If we don't find something soon, however, we will need to turn our attention to other matters. Your people need you."

Fíli decides to outright ignore that very last statement for the time being.

"Something _will_ turn up," he insists, hoping not only to quench Balin's doubts, but also to silence that nagging little voice in his head.

_What if it doesn't?_ it asks.


	4. Day 10

**A/N: Here are three shorter chapters at once, hope you enjoy! Feedback is highly appreciated ;)**

**Day 10**

On the tenth day, Fíli is restless. Every sound in the hallways, every time someone pokes their head through his door has him sitting up with his heart threatening to jump out of his chest. Will this be it? Have they finally found something?

When morning turns into midday and midday into afternoon, he tells himself that it is foolish of him to expect to hear something so soon. His highest hopes rest on Nori and Bifur for the time being, and he knows that tracking takes time. Not even to speak of the distance the two of them might need to travel before finding something of interest.

If only he could be out there himself. He tried to get up earlier that day, but found that his legs were still not working properly. When Óin comes to change the bandages on his head and torso, Fíli brings up the issue.

"There is no injury to your legs," the old Dwarf explains, looking distinctly unhappy. "So I suspect that the reason lies either in the wound you received when the orc stabbed you or in the blow to your head when you hit the ground. I'm afraid only time will tell whether this is a permanent problem or not."

Fíli considers this for a moment. "Maybe they shouldn't be calling me Fíli the Deathless then. Maybe Fíli the Lame would be more appropriate," he jokes, but his laugh sounds hollow to his own ears.

The fact that Óin doesn't even manage a grin makes him wish that he had simply left the matter alone.


	5. Day 14

**Day 14**

Fourteen days and Fíli is slowly but surely losing his mind. Daily updates from the search parties still scouring the area around the watchtower have been utterly disappointing. With each of them he can feel Balin grow more impatient to discuss the matter of the reign over Erebor, but Fíli won't have it.

He can't.

Yes, he has been groomed for this job his whole life, but it was never supposed to be like this. For one thing, Erebor has been nothing more than a _story _for the greater part of his life and it was a very different thing to fancy himself the king of a fictional kingdom than to be forced to be rule an _actual _kingdom. He still has trouble wrapping his mind around the fact that he really _is_ at Erebor – how on earth is he supposed to govern it?

Then, Thorin was never supposed to die quite so young. He was supposed to be there, to set the whole thing up, to initiate Fíli into his his role, to be able to enjoy the fruits of his labor before passing away in high age and in peace. Growing up without a father, Fíli has always needed Thorin, but never so much as now that he is not there anymore.

Lastly, of course, Kíli was supposed to be at his side for this. Kíli, his first general. His most loyal supporter, most stubborn challenger, most reliable comforter, his best friend. His better half, in some ways, and his reminder of who he is and who he should try to become.

But now his brother is not there to be any of these things and Fíli cannot face his monumental task like this. Incomplete. One half of a whole, a head without a heart, a life without a purpose.

No, he'll stay in denial for as long as he can. When it comes to stubbornness, he has learned from the best.


	6. Day 19

**Day 19**

They ambush him on the nineteenth day. Just when he thought he might be getting away with his policy of denial and wilful ignorance for a little longer still.

When he wakes up from an exhausted slumber – he only sleeps when he can't help it, nowadays – and finds Balin at his bedside, he prepares himself for another report which leaves him nothing the wiser as to his Kíli's fate. But then he notices not one but two other figures looming behind the very short Dwarf. Dwalin and Gandalf.

By his beard, they really must mean business, then.

He struggles into an upright position, feeling rather embarrassed by his sleepy state. They could have come in at any hour during the long, lonely night and found him wide awake and alert, but no, they had to choose the one moment where he has finally resigned himself to allow his body some much needed rest.

"What's the matter?" he asks as innocently as he can manage, quickly running a hand across his features to further rid himself of any traces of sleep.

Dwalin and Gandalf exchange a look which he does not like. Balin leans forward in his chair.

"We need to make certain... arrangements," Balin says, choosing his words carefully. "There are some matters on which we cannot – on which we _will not_ – proceed without your authority."

Fíli grunts. "Well, I _authorize_ you to do whatever you think is good and proper. I trust that among the three of you—" he gestures from Balin to Dwalin and Gandalf, "—you will find a satisfactory solution for whatever matters should arise."

The steadying breath which Balin takes does not escape his notice. "Not for this, I'm afraid."

Fíli raises his eyebrows.

"We need to plan your coronation," Balin continues. "And we really cannot wait any longer to have Thorin's funeral. We – that is, me and the others – we would like to include a memorial service for Kíli as well..."

"No, absolutely not!" Fíli exclaims in horror, dropping his mask of feigned indifference.

"Fíli, it has been almost three weeks...," Balin begins, but is cut off by Fíli immediately.

"Three weeks where my brother has been _missing_, yes," Fíli snarls. "I'm not giving him a bloody _burial_."

"Fíli..." Balin tries again, but doesn't get any further than that.

"I said no," Fíli snaps, "and I will not be hearing any more of this, understood?"

There is a scuffle, and suddenly Fíli finds himself yanked upward by the collar of his shirt to stare into Dwalin's wild eyes.

"Listen to me now, boy," Dwalin growls, "you are not the only one who has lost people. Thorin – he was so much more than just my king. Damn it, he was my _best_ friend. And what you are doing right now would not make him proud. Not at all. You're gonna have to try harder, _understood_?"

Fíli would be a liar if he pretended that being faced with Dwalin's wrath does not bring him uncomfortably close to pissing his pants. Still, he refuses to back down quite so easily.

"You don't understand," he snaps.

"Yes, I do," Dwalin returns and Fíli watches as something in his angry glare shifts and softens. Durin's beard, Dwalin isn't going to cry, is he? "I do," the older dwarf repeats and releases his hold onto Fíli's shirt. "But that does not change anything, does it? We're still here and they're not and we owe it to them to make sure that what happened did not happen in vain."

Fíli just stares at Dwalin for a few moments. He isn't sure if he has ever heard Dwalin speak so much at once, let alone discuss his _feelings_. Fíli's shoulders slump and he sinks back into his pillow rather pathetically, not caring any longer if he appears weak.

"I don't know what to do," he admits, his voice small.

"You are not facing this alone," Gandalf speaks up and Fíli lifts his gaze to find three pairs of eyes resting on him with nothing but kindness and patience reflected in them. He sighs.

"Alright, then. I'll do whatever you need me to do." He pauses. "But I'm not holding a burial or anything remotely of the sort for Kíli. Not yet."

Out of the corner of his eye he can see Balin making to disagree, but at a quick glance from Gandalf and he falls back into his chair. "Agreed," he says. "Nothing of that sort until you are ready. We can speak more of Thorin's funeral tomorrow. And as soon as you are on your feet again, we will need to start planning your coronation ceremony."

Fíli nods, absentmindedly. He wishes he did not have to be a part of any of these things, but of course that is not possible. He cannot escape his responsibilities any more than he can escape his fate. So he'll have to find a way to bear it, somehow.

Seeing that everything has been said for the time being, Balin rises from his chair and makes for the door, followed by Dwalin. Gandalf, Fíli notices, lingers behind, nodding to the two Dwarfs as they exit Fíli's quarters.

Once the door has fallen shut behind his two brethren, Fíli turns his questioning gaze to the wizard. Clearly he has something on his mind. Whatever it is, Fíli hopes it's not more bad news.

After pacing about for a few moments, Gandalf comes to stand at the foot of his bed.

"I was wondering," the wizard says, "what lands you are currently having searched for any traces of your brother."

Fíli is surprised. He would have expected more advice on how to follow in Thorin's footsteps or other counsel of that sort.

"The areas north and east of the Mountain," he replies, swallowing his surprise. "I was thinking that the goblins might have retreated to the shelter of the Grey Mountains – they are close and offer lots of hiding places, especially if they were carrying a prisoner."

Gandalf makes a vague humming sound."Yes, that appears to be the most likely scenario," he says, though his forehead is cast into deep furrows as if he is trying to work out a particularly complicated puzzle.

"You think I should keep looking, then?" Fíli interrupts the wizard's train of thought. "That maybe Kíli really is still alive and out there somewhere?"

"I believe you should." Gandalf's gaze is steady as he looks back at him and Fíli feels his heartbeat quicken until he can hear it pounding away in his ears.

He reaches out, his hand closing around the wizard's forearm.

"Gandalf, do you know something that I don't?"

_Please, please, please give me some hope._

Gandalf stares at the hand on his arm. When his gaze returns to Fíli's, he thinks he sees a flicker of uncertainty in the wizard's eyes, but it is gone before he can be sure of it. Gently, Gandalf pries Fíli's fingers loose and turns away to go back to pacing the length of the room.

"I cannot tell you what you so obviously want to hear," he says, his voice tinged with regret and something Fíli cannot quite make sense of. Again, Gandalf turns to look at the bedridden Dwarf. "But if the thought that one day both you and your brother might get to live in the kingdom you are about to build is what keeps you sane, what keeps you going, then yes, do not give up just yet." Fíli's disappointment at this rather vague, passive answer must have shown in his face, for Gandalf quickly adds, "Also, much stranger things have been known to come to pass. Hope, I often find, is a much stronger thing than probability."

Fíli finds himself nodding grimly. Not exactly what he was hoping for when Gandalf brought up the issue, but he'll take it. It's more support than he's had for a while and in his current situation he is willing to grasp at any straws.

_Do you hear me_, Kíli, he prays silently as Gandalf bids him farewell and leaves him to his thoughts, _I still have hope. And wherever you are, I need you to hold on. Just a little longer._


	7. Day 23

**Day 23**

Hope is a powerful thing indeed, but it cannot always withstand the cruelty of reality and on the twenty-third day, Fíli's capacity for it is tested severely when he receives some bad news.

Nori and Bifur have returned from their mission, not merely empty-handed, but with information which destabilizes the careful construct of imagined facts Fíli has build around Kíli's unexplained disappearance. They did indeed succeed in tracking down a group of goblin deserters formerly serving in Azog's ranks. Of a Dwarven prisoner (or any prisoner, for that matter) Nori and Bifur could, however, find no trace.

His two kinsmen assure him that they have undertaken all measures to investigate the matter and found nothing. Fíli has no reason to distrust their word – he knows that Nori is rather sneaky and does not shy away from unconventional methods and that Bifur is altogether ruthless. Still, that doesn't make what they have to tell him any easier to hear.

And so, on the afternoon of that same day, he takes a leaf out of his brother's book and does something reckless.

Thorin's funeral is to be held in three days time, and while it has been agreed that a memorial for Kíli will not be held on this occasion, Fíli has gotten it into his head that by then he should have some kind of proof of his brother's survival. So far, however, he has nothing and decides that it is time to take matters into his own hands. He has to do something, right?

He knows Kíli like no other, knows how he fights, knows how he thinks. Maybe he will see something that the others didn't, will be able to solve a puzzle the pieces of which only he can find. He is still in no state to go far and search the lands adjacent to Erebor, so he will have to contend himself by scouring Ravenhill for any sort of trace, any hint as to what made Kíli disappear off the surface of the Earth.

Healthwise this is probably a very bad idea, but Fíli is almost entirely confident that he will make it there. Never mind coming back, he will work that out later.

His legs feel stiff and sore when he gets out of bed and begins dressing himself, but he notices with satisfaction that at least some strength seems to be returning to them. Where a few days ago he wobbled and trembled, he now feels much more secure on his feet. Still, walking a distance as great as this will be a challenge, he cannot deny that.

As he pulls on his coat, his gaze falls onto the wooden cane leaning against the foot of his bed. Since Balin left it for him a few days ago, he has managed to avoid using it, choosing to hobble about his room instead. Now, though, he hardly has a choice.

With a disgruntled sigh, he picks up the cane and takes a few experimental steps, grudgingly admitting to himself that with it he will get by much more easily. It's not going to be like this forever, he consoles himself. Right now, though, Kíli needs him and he cannot let vanity stand in his way.

He hurriedly gathers his golden hair at the back of his neck and fastens it with a clasp. After pulling the hood on his cloak as far into his face as it will go, he turns to study himself in the heavily ornamented mirror in the corner of his room. This will have to do by ways of a disguise. Nobody expects to see him outside his quarters anyway, so it should not be too hard to avoid being noticed.

The corridors leading away from his quarters are blissfully deserted and once he reaches the more public areas of the kingdom below the mountain, he manages to swiftly weave his way through the crowd, never lingering long enough for anybody to get a good look at him.

And then, finally, he's outside. He did not even realize how oppressive the mountain could feel until he takes his first breath of fresh air in weeks and lets his eyes feast on the lands stretching out from Erebor towards the south.

For a moment he feels almost free. Then his eyes fall unto the looming structure a few miles from where he is standing now and his mouth forms a grim line. Ravenhill. Under different circumstances he would have no desire to ever return to that place of death, but he has no choice.

Keeping his head down, Fíli begins his laborious journey, trying, for the first part of it, to blend in with the people traveling from Erebor to Dale. Dwarves and Men in equal shares, he observes not without a certain amount of surprise. He heard from Balin, of course, that trade was going well with the people of Dale, but he has not expected such a lively bustle as he is witnessing now. People are moving on after the terrible events of the battle, it seems.

He isn't one of them, though, he cannot be, not until he finally determines Kíli's fate. Infused with a new sense of urgency, Fíli makes good progress and finds himself at the foot of Ravenhill about an hour before dusk.

As he climbs the decrepit stairs leading up to the platform below the actual watchtower, he tries and fails not to let images from that fateful day flood his mind. And with them, of course, come the feelings. Terror. Helplessness. Despair.

Fíli's foot slips on one of the steps and his cane clatters to the ground as he scrambles to find steady footing once more. Straightening up, he realizes that he has reached the icy plateau where Thorin must have fought Azog. Where Thorin died.

He swallows, refusing, for now, to let his gaze drift over to where he knows from Balin's accounts Thorin's body was found, cradled in the trembling arms of the Hobbit. He cannot let himself get distracted now. He will grieve for Thorin in his own time, but for now all of his energy needs to be invested in finding Kíli.

Focusing on the watchtower instead, he fumbles around on the ground for his cane. Not much further now.

As he approaches the ruined structure of the tower, he cannot help letting his eyes travel up the side of it, quickly locating the platform to which Azog dragged him after capturing him, dangling him in the air for Thorin to see like a piece of cheap bait. His blood runs cold as his gaze flicks between that particular spot and the ground below.

Too high. Much, much, much too high. I should be dead, he thinks with that curious feeling like he is missing something crucial that he gets whenever he contemplates his miraculous survival.

Shaking himself, he forces his feet to resume walking, keeping his gaze fixed on the ground to ensure that he does not slip again. His heart is beating fast in his chest and there is a buzzing sound in his ears. He realizes he has not been breathing properly and pauses to take a slow breath, willing this irrational fear that is threatening to take hold of him to subside.

There is no danger here for him. Not now, anyways.

Although it takes nearly all of his courage to do so, he chooses exactly the same path into the depth of the tower which he and Kíli took on that fateful day. If he wants to have any chance at finding something, he needs to retrace Kíli's steps as meticulously as possible.

Upon reaching the spot where he and his brother parted ways, he allows himself one moment of acute heartache. Leaning his head against the uneven, cold wall he closes his eyes and tries to conjure Kíli's face before him, the way he looked at him with such faith in his abilities.

_Stay here. I've got this._

He has never been as disastrously wrong in his entire life.

Not for the first time, Fíli wonders how things would have turned out if he and Kíli had not split up. Would Azog have tossed them both off the tower? Or would they have stood a chance against the Pale Orc and his minions if they had fought side by side, as they always did?

There is no way to know, but that does not meant that the question does not haunt Fíli during his sleepless nights. He made that particular choice out of an impulse to protect his brother, his habitual willingness to sacrifice himself if that meant that Kíli would be safe taking over. And a lot of good it has brought him – he's still here and Kili is... well, _not_.

Putting those dark thoughts aside for now, Fíli pushes himself off the wall with renewed determination. Glancing down the dark passage that took him to his almost-death three weeks ago, he shivers, but then turns in the other direction, taking the same tunnel Kíli took when he told him to search the lower levels.

From Dwalin's account of the minutes surrounding his own fall from the tower, Fíli knows that Kíli was straight below the platform to which Azog dragged him and so it is fairly easy to retrace his brother's steps up until that moment. Upon reaching the spot from which Kíli watched him fall, Fíli crouches down, trying to see things exactly as his brother did then.

His eyes fall onto a read stain on the icy ground a couple of feet away. His blood. Lots and lots of it.

_I shouldn't still be here. _

That voice again. Even though he does not really care for it, he is slowly beginning to understand the reverence with which some of his fellow Dwarves treat him nowadays. It truly is miraculous that he is still alive and he can see how easy it is to come to the conclusion that his survival must hold some deeper meaning.

If only he knew what that meaning is.

The squawk of a raven pulls him from his thoughts and he gazes upward. The light in the sky is slowly beginning to fade and if he still wants to be able to look for traces of Kíli he ought to hurry.

Grabbing his cane tightly, Fíli heaves himself off the ground with a grunt and begins looking for the closest set of stairs. Not much is known of Kíli after the moment of Fíli's presumed death except that he went after Azog and his brutes. For this, he would have had to climb the tower and would have chosen the earliest opportunity to do so.

Fíli finds the stairs he has been looking for and, going up, sees his suspicions confirmed by several puddles of goblin blood. The bodies have been removed and burned since the day of the battle, but Fíli is positive that Kíli did come through here and slayed every vile creature that dared oppose him. His heart clenches when he imagines his little brother's agony over witnessing his fall and, as Kíli must have thought, his death, but he does not allow himself to pause, not now.

He finds more goblin blood and experiences a surge of pride. While bow and arrow have remained Kíli's weapons of choice for a s long as he can remember, his little brother has grown absolutely deadly with a sword over the course of the past couple of years. If anybody could have fought his way out of this mess, it would be Kíli.

_But if that is so, _the voice of doubt taunts him,_ then where is he now?_

Fíli refuses to listen and continues to struggle upward, taking note of every speck of blood along the way. Finally, he stumbles onto another platform almost at the very top of the tower. A heavy silence lies over the place and Fíli pulls his coat more tightly around himself, shivering despite the blood which his hastened climb has sent rushing through his veins. This must be it, the place where the others found Kíli's things.

He walks around the platform once, taking in every detail. Another set of stairs, leading up to one more level, though there isn't much left of that from what he can see. Stone pillars, engraved with the runes of his forefathers. It is hard to tell which damage to the structure of the tower stems from recent fighting and which was already done long before the battle, but Fíli tries nonetheless, running his fingers over every crack in the wall.

It looks as if someone was thrown against one of the sturdy pillars, but whoever it was must have been much lighter than Kíli, for the damage is minimal. A small goblin perhaps, Fíli thinks and dismisses it as unhelpful. Towards the far end of the platform, he finds scuff marks on the ground, as if someone struggled not to fall off the edge. He looks down into the abyss below, the bottom of which he can barely make out. Whoever fought to keep their balance here, did they succeed at it or fail?

Fear claws at his insides. If Kíli is down there, it might takes years to retrieve his body.

With a sigh he turns and redirects his gaze towards the middle of the platform. He has avoided to do so until now, for he has known how the sight of what he is going to find there will affect him. A dark stain on the ground, redder than goblin blood.

He falls onto his knees, running his fingertips across the dried blood. Kili's blood. Similarly as when he found his own blood at the foot of the tower, Fíli is now struck by the thought that this is a lot of blood. Too much blood, if he is honest with himself.

He sinks back onto his heels and takes a calming breath. If I survived this, then so did Kíli, he tells himself, but even in his mind the words are beginning to sound more hollow with each time that he repeats them.

He looks around, scanning the platform again and again. There has to be something here, something else. Something to give him hope. But there isn't. He does not know what he expected, but it was not this. Not just a pool of his brother's blood and some marks on the floor and on the walls that probably don't even belong to Kíli.

Another glance at the sky makes him realize with a certain amount of panic that there is only very little daylight left. He has to get back to the lower levels to make sure that he did not miss anything down there. If someone took Kíli, they would have had to bring him back down from the tower first, so maybe there is still a chance that he might discover something down there.

Impatient to leave the platform, Fíli tucks his cane under his arm and heads for the nearest set of stairs, trying to ignore the trembling in his legs as he does so. He does not get very far, though, for after two or three stairs his right leg, always the one he has more trouble with, gives away and he finds himself sliding down the remainder of the stairs on his back.

Now, falling down stairs is quite painful when done by a healthy person, but three weeks after obtaining several near-fatal injuries, the pain is excruciating. For a moment all air is knocked from Fíli's lungs and when it returns he groans, cursing himself for his clumsiness, his weakness.

_There is no time for this, get up, get up, get up, you idiot._

Rolling onto his side as carefully as possible considering that he is still sprawled across a set of hard, icy steps, Fíli reluctantly opens his eyes, struggling to get his sight to focus.

And that's when he sees it.

There, nestled in a crack in the very bottom of the wall is a small, oval stone, more polished than any surface in the ruins of the watchtower. Ignoring the pain that shoots through his upper body at the action, Fíli reaches out, wrapping his trembling fingers around the stone. Holding it in front of his eyes, what he knew in his heart the second he laid eyes on it, is confirmed.

Kíli's rune stone.

For a few moments, he simply stares at the token that is so achingly familiar and yet seems so out place. He assumed Kíli had lost it. In the days leading up to the battle he has never watched his brother toy with the stone any more like he did on so many nights during their long journey, tossing it in the air and catching it again. With the tumultuous final part of their journey – a barrel ride, Kíli's sickness and a bloody dragon attack – it would not have surprised him if the stone had been lost.

Clearly it hasn't. Clearly Kíli carried it with him into battle in honour of the promise he made to their mother.

"_I'll come back to you. I'll make you proud."_

Fíli runs his thumb across the stone's smooth surface, caressing the runes which have been carved into it.

_Innikh dê._

When a drop of liquid lands on the opaque surface of the talisman, it takes Fíli a moment to realize that he is crying. Crying because he holds in his hands the evidence of a promise that is likely to never be fulfilled.

_He's not coming back. He's gone, and he's not coming back._

"NO!" he roars, hoisting himself back onto his feet, angrily wiping the back of his sleeve across his wet face.

It does not matter, he tells himself. Several of Kíli's possessions were found on Ravenhill and he has always insisted that this does not have to mean anything, that Kíli might still be alive and well no matter how many of his things turn up. Why should a stupid rune stone be any different?

But it is. The fact that he should find this particular stone when the watchtower has already been searched inch by inch by the remainder of their company appears to hold a sinister significance which Fíli cannot deny. And now that bloody voice inside his head won't be silenced any longer.

_He's gone. Gone. Gone. Gone._

Fíli does not know how he makes it off the watchtower without accident, cannot account for his journey down the side of the hill. He stumbles away from that cursed place, hoping that putting some distance between himself and the watchtower will ease the dread in his heart, the agony in his soul.

It doesn't.

When he reaches the outskirts of Dale, the torches lining the city walls have already been lit, casting an orange glow onto his path. Fíli stops, leaning against the crumbling wall of a ruined guardhouse for support. Now that he has completed his mission, devastating as its results may be, he can barely keep himself upright. And still - _still_ – that voice won't stop tormenting him.

_There's no one left to return to you. You're on your own._

"Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP!"

For the first couple of punches he does not even realize that he has begun pounding the wall and when he does he finds that he cannot stop. Finally, the pain eclipses all thought, all other feelings, and he leans his forehead against the wall, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

"Are you alright, sir?"

The voice cutting through the stillness of the air is so low, so tentative, that Fíli almost does not hear it over the droning sound in his ears.

He freezes and turns around, one hand instinctively reaching for one of the blades strapped to his upper body. He drops his hand again immediately when out from amongst the shadows a slight figure emerges, the torchlight dancing across her smooth features.

The bowman's daughter. Sigrid.

"Oh. It's you," she says when she recognizes him and Fíli cannot be sure if it's just the firelight or if he saw a curious little glimmer in her eyes as she did so.

"What are you doing here?" With his voice hoarse from shouting and just the general emotional strain he has been under, that came out much more harshly than intended. Sigrid visbly flinches and Fíli curses himself. "I—I mean you shouldn't be out here, by yourself, at this time of day," he tries again, hoping to atone for some of his rudeness.

"I—I know," Sigrid replies, blushing. She nods to a book she is holding pressed against her chest, like a shield. "I fell asleep, reading. I was just looking for a way to sneak back into the city without Da noticing. He's been very protective after... after everything."

Fíli nods lamely, still feeling terribly embarrassed by having her come upon him during his fit of rage.

Briefly, his mind flashes back to a moment during the dragon attack when he watched her gaze up at the dragon wreaking havoc in the sky with fear but also something close to awe in her eyes. He remembers thinking that one day, when all of this was over and they were all safe again, he would like to tell her that she has the most stunning set of hazel eyes he has ever seen. Warm like honey, but also sharp, as if she could gaze straight into your soul with them.

Well, currently he couldn't be further from doing any such thing. All he has managed so far is to be rather rude to her and, worse, scare her.

"Let me walk you to the gates," he offers, spurned by a sudden impulse to not have her regard him as a complete twat. "I know a thing or two about getting by without being seen. Maybe we can get you in without causing anyone alarm."

In the orange glow of the torches it is difficult to say, but he thinks that her blush just deepened.

"I'd like that, thank you," she says, her voice small. Her gaze, however, remains fixed on his, and to his mortification Fíli feels his own face grow warm under her scrutiny.

The events of the past couple of weeks have left their mark on her, too, he notices. The contours of her face have grown sharper, making her look less like a girl and more like a woman. Not that she didn't look like a woman before... Here Fíli stops himself before his mind can stray to the very lovely figure concealed by her humble dress which he has secretly been admiring during their time in Bard's house.

He jerks his head in the general direction of the city gates. "Come on then."

To his dismay he finds that he now has some serious trouble walking, the events of the day taking their toll. The way he has to lean on his cane with almost all of his weight can hardly escape Sigrid's notice, but he greatly appreciates that she does not call him out on it. Instead, she walks beside him as naturally as if their excruciatingly slow pace was set by herself and not him.

"What are you reading then, that is keeping you out here for hours on end in this weather?" he asks her when he cannot bear the silence that has fallen between them any longer.

"Oh, this?" Sigrid loosens her grip on the book she still holds clutched to her chest and glances at the cover. "It's nothing too clever, I'm afraid. Just some children's stories to draw my mind away from... you know. Everything."

He nods. "It is comforting sometimes to remember that even if everything around us changes, the stories we were told as children still remain the same, isn't it?"

She inclines her head and smiles, clearly pleased that he is not making fun of her for her choice of reading material. Well, he has no reason at all to do so. She may not be a warrior, but in the short time he has known her, he has never seen her be anything but brave. And even the bravest among them needed to seek a little bit of comfort from time to time, didn't they?

"Why come out here, though?" he asks after returning her smile. "Surely it would be more comfortable to sit down with a book in front of a warm fire."

Sigrid hesitates and Fíli can tell that she debates whether she should dismiss his inquiry with a vague answer or tell him the truth. She chooses the latter and he feels an inexplicable surge of joy over the fact that she thinks him, a grumpy old dwarf, worthy of her trust.

"As I mentioned, my father has become very vigilant after the battle," she begins a little haltingly, but grows more confident when he continues to regard her with nothing but kind interest. "They call him the King of Dale nowadays and he can now protect me and my brother and sister in ways he never could when he was still a simple bargeman. Only..." she falls silent for a moment, her gaze wandering off into the darkness before returning to Fíli. "Only I don't need this protection. Not any more. I took care of my siblings and everything about the house for a long, long time before we came to Dale and now I cannot simply put up my feet and be treated like a princess. And that's why I come out here. To be on my own, to remember who I am. And I don't care one bit if it's dangerous."

That last part is said with an air of stubborn defiance that almost reminds Fíli of his brother and he chuckles, his esteem for the young woman growing by the minute. "I understand," he says quickly, hoping that his mirth will not cause her to assume that he is making fun of her. His face grows a bit more serious. "Many of us struggle with the new order of things. With the new roles we are expected to fill."

She bites her lip and ducks her head, a wistful smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Right," she says. "I probably shouldn't even be talking to you of such trivial matters, with you being a king and all."

Fíli huffs. "Not quite yet." He stops and grins at her when she pauses in her step and turns toward him. "Besides, you just said yourself that you are a princess now, so it's perfectly proper for us to be having this conversation. Milady," he ads after a beat.

She laughs at that and the sound thaws at something in his cold, cold heart.

"Some royalty we are," she says, indicating her modest, gray dress and brown cloak and his general, rather dilapidated state.

"Never judge a book by its cover," he quips, harking back to their conversation about her story book.

"No, that would be premature indeed," she murmurs. Her smile is genuine, but there is something in her eyes that suggests a deeper meaning behind their exchange, an understanding on some level that Fíli cannot quite grasp yet.

Before he has time to come up with a clever reply, her smile fades and he knows what is coming even before the words leave her mouth.

"I'm so sorry," she says. "For what happened to your uncle. And for the loss of your brother – you must miss him so."

Fíli feels the warmth which has been pooling inside his belly for the past couple of minutes seep out of him like sand running through an hourglass. It always comes back to this, it seems.

"Kíli's not dead," he says coldly, the habitual reply spilling from his lips with all the more vehemence after today's discoveries. "They never found a body. He's still out there somewhere."

He can feel Sigrid's eyes on him, but doesn't meet her gaze for fear of the pity he is sure to find there. "Oh," she simply says, her voice gentle. "Well, I hope you'll find him soon then."

Great. Now she thinks he's some sort of madman who is chasing after a ghost.

Still avoiding her gaze, Fíli looks about himself. They've reached the north-western gate, the road leading up to it directly connecting the City of Dale to the gates of Erebor. Despite the darkness, there are still a number of people pouring into the city, returning from a busy day as tradesmen, messengers, or whatever else is keeping the city's inhabitants occupied nowadays.

"We're here," Fíli says to Sigrid, stopping in the shadows just at the side of the road. "Just attach yourself to the next group that comes by. Act as if its the most natural thing for you to be walking with them and no one will take notice of you."

He sees her nod out of the corner of his eye. "Thank you," she says. He can tell from her tone that she is either looking for the words or the courage to say something else, but before she can, a group of men and women carrying sacks of grain passes them by.

"Go," Fíli says, glad that he won't have to bear her sympathy.

When she still doesn't move, he places a tentative hand at the small of her back, giving her a gentle push. His fingers linger for a moment after she has stepped into the road, but then he withdraws his hand, his fingertips tingling from the warmth of her body.

She turns her head to look at him even as the group of merchants sweeps her up, carrying her away with them like a flower petal on a gurgling stream. Her eyes hold a number of questions, but even if there was time to ask them, Fíli feels quite sure that he would not know the answers to most of them.

He returns her gaze as steadily as he can manage, watching her go with a tinge of regret. Only when the gates of the city have swallowed her does he turn his back on Dale, preparing himself for the final part of his own journey. As he staggers through the darkness, his steps faltering more often than not, he wonders if he will ever see her again like this, without the impediments that the expectations of others force upon them. He hopes that he will, if only to convince her that he isn't always as mad as he has behaved today.

Also, he still hasn't told her how pretty those eyes of hers are.


	8. Day 24

_A/N: Glad to see that there are some who are enjoying this! Here's the aftermath of Fíli's little excursion with the bonus of something sweet towards the end._

**Day 24**

Fíli wakes up on the twenty-fourth day without any clear recollection of how he got into his bed. Peeking under the thick blankets covering his body, he notes that both his bandages and his clothes have been changed.

Frowning, he sorts through the jumbled mess inside his head until he happens upon a memory of causing quite the spectacle by stumbling inside the gates of Erebor and almost fainting right there in front of everybody.

Ah. Yes.

When his befuddled mind begins to throw random flashes at him of struggling wildly against helping hands, babbling nonsense about his brother, his uncle, and hazel eyes, as well as Óin threatening to have Dwalin knock him out by force, Fíli throws an arm across his face and groans.

It is true that he did not invest much thought into how he would get back into the mountain when he set out to investigate Kíli's fate the day before, but even if he had, he would not have imagined things to play out the way they did.

Slowly he rolls onto his right side, refusing, for now, to assess how the exertions of the previous day have affected the already rather sorry state of his bodily health. His arm slides from his eyes and - to his horror - he finds himself face to face with Dwalin who is sitting right next to his bed with his elbows on his knees and his chin resting on top of his folded hands. He does not look happy.

"Serves you right to feel embarrassed," he grunts. "The next time you want to make a fool of yourself, go and drink yourself into a stupor or somethin'. I'm sure Bofur will be happy to keep you company. But don't you run off like that again. "

Fíli closes his eyes and exhales. "I'm sorry," he mumbles, feeling an awful lot like a misbehaving child.

Dwalin makes a sound of displeasure at the back of his throat. "I thought we agreed that you were going to try harder," he says and Fíli is dismayed at the disappointment he hears in the ferocious Dwarf's voice.

"I'm not Thorin," Fíli says with a hint of defiance in his tone. "Don't expect me to make the right decisions all the time or this will get very frustrating very quickly."

"Thorin made mistakes all the time," Dwalin returns without missing a beat. "But he learned from them. I hope you shall do the same."

Fíli doesn't answer, his gaze straying away from Dwalin's scowl. His eyes land on his nightstand and the object resting on it. Kíli's rune stone.

Dwalin follows his line of sight. "I see your search was not entirely fruitless."

"No," Fíli says, feeling curiously empty inside as he gazes at his brother's token. "But still that doesn't help me one bit."

"Maybe it does," Dwalin comments and Fíli looks at him in surprise. "If it means that you see now that there is nothing worth finding out there."

Again, Fíli averts his gaze. He feels like crying, but his eyes remain as dry as a desert. "I know," he admits. "I'm not going back to that place, don't worry."

"Good." Despite the satisfaction in Dwalin's tone his face remains serious. "I trust you know that on this account, I would have preferred to have been wrong."

"I know, I know," Fíli mutters. He fiddles with the edge of his blanket for a moment.

It feels a bit strange to be speaking this openly with Dwalin. While the older dwarf has been around for as long as Fíli can remember, matters of the heart were never among their usual topics for discussion. He used to have Thorin for that, and Kíli, of course. Recalling the look in Dwalin's eyes when they spoke of Thorin a few days ago, Fíli remembers that he is not the only one who suddenly has holes in his life, in his heart, which need to be filled. Maybe it will do them both some good to learn to confide in each other.

"I still feel as if Kíli might be somewhere out there, alive," he finally admits. "And until the opposite is proven, I will not stop hoping for a sign that he is. I _cannot_. But until then I will not put myself or anyone else in danger by searching for him."

Dwalin inclines his head. "Fair enough." The matter appears to be settled for him at that and he shifts in his seat, moving to get up. "Come on then, we need you to make an appearance today. Time to put some clothes on."

Fíli gapes at him. "What, now? Dwalin, I'm not sure I can—"

But Dwalin is having none of that. "You walked to Ravenhill and back yesterday. Surely you can suffer through sitting and discussing some more or less significant matters for a couple of hours. Right?"

The glare which Dwalin sends his way has Fíli sitting up in bed in a split second. And here he thought that the older Dwarf might be going soft.

"I suppose I can do that," he mutters, wincing when his muscles scream in protest at being put to use.

"Splendid," Dwalin exclaims as he heads for the door and Fíli glowers at the touch of sarcasm in his voice. "I'll wait for you outside." Before leaving the room Dwalin turns around once more. "Ah, almost forgot. Here, Óin sends his regards." He tosses Fíli a small glass vial containing a honey-colored tincture. "Says a couple of drops should help you get through the morning ahead of us."

"Thanks," Fíli mutters distractedly, eyeing the crystalline container with some suspicion. After the door clicks shut, he shrugs. "To good health, then," he toasts the emptiness of his room and uncorks the vial. He's not going to say no to a little help and if somehow Óin's little potion should manage to numb the pain inside his heart alongside that in his limbs, all the better.

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

The 'more or less significant matters' end up taking up much more than just the morning and when Fíli finally returns to his quarters the sun is already quite low in the sky. He feels exhausted and in more than just a bit of pain. Still, he does not intend to stay in his rooms for very long, preparing to head down and join the others for dinner instead.

To his surprise, being in the company of his brethren, quarreling about this and that, and having a good laugh from time to time has felt much better than he would have expected. He thought that seeing them all without Kíli at his side and Thorin at the head of the table would be nothing but a painful reminder of the gaps they left behind and while there have been many moments throughout the day where he has acutely felt his loss, he has also managed to draw comfort from the presence of the others. From knowing that he is not as alone in this as he originally thought.

However, his hurry to rejoin the other Dwarves also has another, more sinister reason. As it turns out, his prolonged absence paired with the embarrassing events of the day before have been more detrimental to the peace below the mountain than he could have anticipated. Apparently, dissent has spread amongst certain groups currently residing at Erebor, with a fraction of Dwarves who have come from the Iron Hills with Dáin pushing for their Lord to take the crown.

To Fíli's and everybody else's knowledge, Dáin has no intention of doing so, but still the news have set Fíli slightly on edge. He might not care much for the crown, dread his responsibilities as king even, but if there is one thing he knows with absolute certainty, then it is that Thorin would have wanted _him_ to be king. Not Dáin or any one else. And so king is what he will become.

Which is why it is important for him now to show some strength, to lock the demons gnawing at his heart and soul up in their cages, and not let them out while he is in public. With things in such a terribly fragile state after the battle, they cannot afford disunity amongst their own people and while Fíli finds it difficult to imagine himself as the force that is going to unite them, needs to try. He owes Thorin this much, at least.

Reaching for the pair of leather arm cuffs which have been left out on his dresser, his hand pauses over a stack of scrolls and parchment sitting on the polished wooden surface. Right. Balin mentioned that he would have some correspondence sent up to his room for him to look over. From the height of the stack he can tell that he is probably in for a late night.

There is one item at the very bottom of the stack that draws his curiosity, though. A rectangular parcel, wrapped in cloth and bound with a few pieces of what appears to be fishing line. He pulls the parcel out from under the many documents and finds a note from Balin stuck to it.

_This came for you with a delivery from Dale this morning. Please confer back to me in case it warrants a reply you would like my advice on. B._

Frowning, Fíli puts the note aside and lifts up the parcel. It's reasonably heavy in his hands. Carefully he unties the knots holding the wrapping in place and removes the cloth to reveal a book, slightly dog-eared and obviously ready many, many times over.

A wide smile spreads across his face. It's Sigrid's book, the one she had with her when they ran into each other the night before.

Running his fingertips along the worn edges of the volume's binding, he flips it open, discovering a message scrawled onto the first page.

_Our bodies may be clad in finest garments,_

_crowns placed upon our heads_

_and responsibilities onto our shoulders._

_In our hearts, though, we remain the same._

_S._

Fíli takes a deep, deep breath, letting those words that speak of a much deeper understanding of his predicament than he would have supposed a young girl to exhibit, sink into him and warm him from the inside. He runs his fingertips over the slightly uneven characters of Sigrid's message, allowing himself a moment where he contemplates the rather curious effect which the words 'our hearts' have on him when coming from her. Then he snaps the book shut and runs a hand across his face. Not the best of times to become distracted by something like this.

Opening the top drawer of his dresser, he hurriedly shoves the book inside, willing the marks it has left on his face and his soul to fade. Checking his reflection in the mirror, he finds himself satisfactorily composed and nods. Time to go and be a king.

Before he leaves his room, though, he opens that drawer again and, without really daring to look at it, takes out the book to place it under his pillow instead.

There. That's better.


	9. Day 26

**Day 26**

Thorin's funeral is held on the twenty-sixth day. For almost the whole duration of the ceremony, Fíli has the curious sensation of floating above his own body, watching the proceedings from a safely detached vantage point.

He cannot bear to look at Thorin, the bluish pallor of his skin from being preserved in the icy coldness deep below the mountain making it hard for Fíli to breathe whenever his eyes happen to skim across it. Thorin – he was so much more than just his uncle. His mentor, his surrogate father, his idol. And now he is as rigid as a slab of stone, never to move again.

Looking around at the other Dwarves instead, Fíli notes that he is not the only one struggling with the sight before him. To an outsider his brethren might seem cold, their grief not shown through tears and exclamations of despair. Fíli can see them, though, the small signs that the hardened Dwarves before him are quite close to coming apart at the seams. A twitch of the upper lip, a narrowing of the eyes, a comforting hand on a brother's shoulder. They grieve, each in their own way.

The only exception from that rather solemn group of mourners is Bilbo, of course, who has had trouble keeping his tears at bay for weeks and is now finally able to find some release. And for some reason Fíli finds solace in the honesty, in the pureness of the Hobbit's pain. Unexpected as it may have been, Bilbo's love for their leader has been innocent and uncomplicated – even through madness, rejection and betrayal it has persisted and now the Hobbit mourns the late Dwarven king with the same kind of loyal devotion. Fíli almost envies it, this complete surrender to one's grief. In time, Bilbo's soul will be cleansed and he will move on from this, a little less whole than before, maybe, but not broken on the inside. Not like he is.

Balin appears at Fíli's side, rousing him from his contemplation of their burglar's feelings towards their late king.

"If you still mean to go through with it, now would be a good time," the older Dwarf mumbles, not taking his eyes off the rites performed on Thorin's body. To Balin's credit, he succeeds at banishing any trace of the doubts Fíli knows him to have from his voice, choosing instead to stand by the decision of his future king.

Fíli nods almost imperceptibly. He clenches his fist for a moment and then loosens his fingers once more, trying to release some of the tension within himself. He takes a step forward.

The words his uncle spoke to him in Lake-town, unwelcome then, echo in his head. _One day you will be king and you will understand._

Time to be the king Thorin wanted him to be.

A heavy silence falls as the low chanting pauses and everyone takes a respectful step back to allow Thorin Oakenshield's nephew free access to his uncle's body.

Fíli keeps his head high and his steps measured as he crosses over to where Thorin lies. He stops beside the stone pedestal above Thorin's head, and takes a deep breath before reaching out to wrap his hand around the item placed on it.

A low murmur passes through the crowd gathered around them, but Fíli tries to pay it no heed, proceeding instead until he comes to stand directly beside Thorin. Before he can have second thoughts, before he can begin to listen to the call with which the item in his hand beckons him, he reaches out and places the large, white jewel onto Thorin's still chest, lifting first one and then the other of his uncle's stiff hands to fold them on top of it. The Arkenstone. Returned to the Earth together with the one who crossed mountains, rivers, and forests to get to it, who shied away from no danger, no sacrifice to obtain it.

In the end, Fíli likes to think, Thorin found so much more than just a treasure, found friendship, love, and honesty where he did not expect them or, maybe, where he had forgotten all about them for a little while at least.

"Goodbye, uncle," he whispers and lays his own hand on top of Thorin's for a moment, ignoring the coldness of the skin beneath his palm.

The rumbling set loose inside the crowd rises to a crescendo, but is cut off abruptly when Fíli turns to face those who have gathered for Thorin's funeral. He is quite aware of some mutinous glances thrown in his direction, but remains unfazed. He would have expected no less. Relinquishing the king's jewel was bound to make some sort of impact, but as things stand, he still has faith that he can turn his people's surprise at the act to his advantage. To all of their advantage, in the long run.

"I stand before you," he addresses them, his voice sounding very loud in the stillness of the catacombs, "bearing no crown upon my head, holding no king's jewel in my hand. I stand before you as one of _you_, as a Dwarf whose dream it is to rebuilt the kingdom of his forefathers. And I do not want to build it on gold, or treasures, but on loyalty and trust and strength such as only Dwarves do have it. All I ask is for you to join me in that dream, so that when we wake from it, the splendor of the Kingdom of Erebor can once again be ours."

He sounds much more confident than he feels when he speaks those words, but then again, he supposes that sometimes a king needs to put on a brave face for his people, needs to become the canvas onto which they can project their hopes and expectations. Truth be told, he doesn't really know what he is doing, his plan to bury the Arkenstone alongside Thorin not entirely founded on reason, but rather on instinct. He will do better without the stone.

Now, he fervently hopes that he did not just royally bugger things up for himself.

The room remains frightfully silent for what feels like agonizing minutes but is probably not much longer than a couple of heartbeats and then there's a rustle and a clatter as Dwarves lower themselves to the ground, bowing their heads to their new king. Some take a little longer than others, the frowns on their foreheads persisting even after their knees touch ground, but Fíli is fine with that. Any leader is bound to encounter some sort of opposition, even if he were older and wiser than the young heir of Durin currently standing before them.

Even though he has achieved the effect he has desired, Fíli is made a little skittish by the picture of a whole room of Dwarves on their knees before him, but forces himself to remain still, his head held high. At the back of the crowd he sees Gandalf and Bard, who have joined the funeral procession to pay their respects to the late King under the Mountain. Both the wizard and the King of Dale are looking at him with appreciation, but Fíli barely notices, for his sight is transfixed by a head of dark-blonde hair and a pair of hazel eyes peeking over Bard's shoulder.

When their eyes meet, Sigrid smiles shyly and despite the low temperatures down in the tombs and the bleakness of the occasion, Fili feels that warmth begin to pool inside of him again, the same kind as when they spoke outside the gates of Dale and when he unwrapped the book she sent him. Only those were private moments, whereas now he is standing in a room full of Dwarves. At his uncle's funeral. About to make a fool of himself.

He blinks and tears his gaze away. This is a terrible, terrible, _terrible_ idea, he tells himself and orders his thoughts to return to the matter at hand at once. Convincing the Dwarves of his fitness to rule and giving Thorin the burial he deserves.

But even as he goes through the motions of completing the burial rites with utmost dedication, the image of eyes like honey stays with him, etched into his mind, his heart.

Alas, he's in so much trouble, isn't he?

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

He finds her after the official part of the ceremony is over, when his brethren have long since given themselves over to the consolatory powers of strong drink. Or maybe it is _her_ who finds _him_ \- he's not entirely sure about that, for even though he has secretly been looking for her all day long, he manages an embarrassing little yelp of surprise when they finally do run into each other in the seclusion of a small balcony to which he has withdrawn in the hope of some much needed fresh air.

"You're still here," he says once he has gotten over the sight of her out here, bathed in the pale light of the moon. "I thought you might have left already when I did not see you inside."

Great. Now he's all but admitted that he has been looking for her.

Sigrid, however, does not at all seem bothered by that fact and merely smiles warmly. "I'm not used to the potency of some of those drinks being passed around in there. I came out here to clear my head."

Fíli notices that her cheeks do seem a little flushed, her eyes shining more brightly than usual. He bites his tongue before he can compliment her on the effects of drinking with Dwarves on her beauty.

"I was surprised you had come," he says instead, trying to steer their conversation into safer waters. "And I'm sorry if the day has been a rather depressing affair."

"Not at all," Sigrid quickly replies, but then smiles ruefully and blushes. "I—I mean, of course it was very sad and I'm so sorry about your uncle. But I'm not sorry to have been a part of it. I all but begged my father to let me come, after all."

Fìli merely gapes at her. She hardly knew Thorin, so why would she want to attend his burial? Unless, of course, she did not come for Thorin at all, but for—

Nope, not going there, he chastises himself. Safer waters, remember?

"Aren't you cold?" he asks her, noticing for the first time that she is not wearing a coat, but a long-sleeved, midnight-blue dress instead. It's not too revealing, but certainly cannot be that warm with the way the tight bodice clings to her skin, the flowing material of the skirt gently accentuating the swell of her hips...

Safer waters! In Mahal's name, safer waters! he silently screams at himself.

"Me? Oh, no," Sigrid laughs, blissfully unaware of the battle raging inside him. "I'm quite used to the cold. It's the damp that always bothered me at Lake-town, so I'm just rather glad to always have clothes that feel clean and dry. What about you? Was the weather much more pleasant where you lived before?"

"In the Blue Mountains?" Fíli chuckles. "No, can't say that it was. Been on the road for much of my adult life, though, so I have seen many different types of weather."

"That must have been fascinating," she says, a look of adventurous longing crossing her youthful face. "To be traveling so much, I mean. You must have seen... How—how old are you, if I may ask?"

"Eighty-two," he replies truthfully. When she looks a little intimidated by that number he feels himself compelled to add, "A Dwarf is not considered a proper adult until around the age of seventy, though, so I'm not really the grumpy old bugger that I seem."

To his relief, she laughs at that. "Not old, no. And only a little bit grumpy," she teases.

They share a smile and a few seconds pass after which Fíli finds that he needs to say something, anything, or he might go and do something idiotic.

He clears his throat. "What about you, then" he asks. "How many years do you have under your belt?"

"Seventeen," Sigrid answers. Some of Fíli's horror must have shown on his face, for she hurries to add, "Eighteen in a few weeks."

Fíli nods slowly, not knowing what to say to that. He knows of course that age means something different to Dwarves than it does to Men, but still. That's awfully young. Suddenly just looking at the girl opposite him seems wildly inappropriate. For a girl she is, even if the lot life has thrown her has made her wise beyond her years.

He proceeds to stare at his feet instead, even more at a loss for words than during this whole, rather catastrophic conversation. He should not be feeling those confusing things, not in general and, especially, not for her. Maybe it's the grog circulating through his bloodstream, maybe its the lateness of the hour, but he finds that he hasn't the strength to deny that he does. Oh, bugger it all.

He has been silent for longer than is polite in a one on one conversation and when he finally musters the courage to look at Sigrid once more, he finds her studying him with a curious mixture of calmness and trepidation. When his eyes find hers, she appears to make up her mind about something and takes half a step towards him. She is so close now that he has no choice but to keep his gaze trained on her face. Otherwise he would end up staring at her chest, which is unacceptable for obvious reasons.

"I may be very young still," she says, her voice only a little louder than a whisper, "but not too young to know exactly what I want."

Fíli stares at her, his heart pounding in his chest. Does she—? Surely she cannot mean—? Should he—?

He realizes that his hand has begun to move of its own volition, his fingers brushing against hers in a feather-light touch, when a voice cuts through the stillness of the night, startling them both.

"Sigrid?!"

Bard sounds worried and maybe a tiny bit inebriated. Sigrid takes a full step back and smiles wistfully. "I have to go," she says, "before he has the entire City Guard search for me."

Fíli inclines his head, hoping to hide his burning cheeks. Sigrid turns to leave and Fíli mentally kicks himself. He's not usually this frustratingly tongue-tied but there is something about her that keeps catching him off guard. Now he would do anything to give this very awkward encounter a more hopeful ending, so that he can go to bed without hitting his head against the wall first for being such a clumsy fool.

"Thank you for the book," he calls out just before she can disappear from the terrace. "I—I really appreciated it." Great. Now she is going to think that he hated her gift. "You should come and visit the library at Erebor some time," he adds quickly. "If—if you ever require any new reading material, I mean. It would be my pleasure to show you around."

His knowledge of the contents of the library is minimal at best, but he knows it exists and would be completely willing to undergo an instruction in its secrets through Balin in order not to make a fool of himself should Sigrid choose to take him up on his offer. All he wants, really, is to let her know that he would like to see her again. Very much.

Her answering smile is blissfully bright. "Oh, I should like that. A lot. Thank you."

He inclines his head, hiding his goofy grin. "Any time you would like." He looks up at her once more. "See you soon, then?"

"Yes," she says a little breathlessly. "Soon."

And then she's gone. Fíli's hand fumbles around in the dark behind him for something to hold onto and finds the stone balustrade of the terrace. He turns around and leans on it, gazing at the sight of the torchlit city below without really seeing it.

Yep. He's most definitely in a tremendous amount of trouble.

_...to be continued..._

_A/N: I do love Fíli, so I'm not sure why I enjoy torturing him so much. Hope you had fun reading this!_


	10. Day 30

**Day 30**

On the thirtieth day, Fíli awakes from a strange dream about Kíli standing amongst what Fíli first thought were falling stars, but turned out to be snowflakes instead.

Fíli sighs and rolls over, holding onto the remnants of his dream. Naturally, he dreams often about his brother, but his dreams vary greatly in content. Some of them are old memories, warm and comforting, while others replay and alter events of the more recent past, frequently turning into nightmares in which Kíli lies bleeding in his arms, life seeping out if him with each ragged breath he takes.

A couple of times during the last few weeks Fíli has had dreams, though, that do not really make sense to him, brief flashes of Kíli in what appear to be random situations – reading in front of a fireplace, staring out a window at an unfamiliar landscape, or, just now, gazing at glittering snowflakes.

Those must be memories, Fíli figures, though he cannot place them. In the end he does not really care, for in those dreams he feels closer to his brother than in the others, mundane as they are. And with regard to Kíli, Fíli is willing to take whatever he can get.

His gaze shifts to the large window at the other end of the room. Since first waking up after the battle he has switched quarters, making use of his newly acquired authority to secure himself one of the few rooms that offer a view of the lands south of Erebor. Most of the time, he does not mind being holed up deep inside the mountain, but from time to time he needs a change. One can only bear to stare at gray stone walls for so long, after all.

After his dream he is somehow not surprised to discover that snow is falling rather heavily outside. He turns onto his back once more and stares at the ceiling. Snow means that she probably will not come, not today.

He's not sure whether he's relieved or disappointed.

Since his vague invitation on the night of Thorin's burial, Fíli has been on edge, alternating between the most curious states of anxiety and elation. He used to think that he knew how to act around the other sex, felt quite confident in his flirting abilities in fact.

But Sigrid... He has no idea how it has happened, but she does something to him that renders him incapable of his usual wit and grace in interactions with pretty lasses. But then again, none of the women who have captured his attention have ever interested him in the way she does. Also, none of those passing fancies of his has ever been as inappropriate as this most recent one.

Ah, to hell with propriety! he can almost hear Kíli exclaim inside his mind.

Yes, his younger brother would not have been bothered by his blossoming affection for the young woman. Would probably even have cheered him on. Kíli, who always put his heart before his head. Who conceived of a very questionable infatuation with an elf-woman under the most dire of circumstances.

Not for the first time in the days since the battle Fíli thinks of the red-haired she-elf who saved Kíli's life. Grateful as he was to her when she came to their aid at Lake-town, he also remembers being embarrassed by his brother's rather obvious admiration for Thranduil's soldier. She was supposed to be their enemy, for Mahal's sake.

After the battle he has often found himself wishing that he had taken his brother's feelings more seriously, had accepted the tenderness in Kíli's gaze when he spoke of the Elf for what it was. It had been apparent to him that Kíli thought he had some sort of understanding with the Elf, but with finding Thorin on the edge of madness upon their arrival at the mountain, Fíli had never found the energy to inquire more deeply into what he thought of as nothing more than a fools errand, of something that would pass.

He wonders if she has fought in the battle and, if so, if she has survived. Does she know that Kíli is gone? Does she care?

He has no way of answering these questions, what with Thranduil having all but sealed off his kingdom from the rest of the world, all attempts at entering into negotiations with him and his people blocked off entirely. Maybe it is for the better. History has shown that nothing good usually came out of relations between Dwarves and the Mirkwood Elves and just because that one member of their race has _possibly_ cared for one of his own that does not mean that anything has to change. Besides, he is not sure if he could even bring himself to face her.

_Yes, because you know she felt something for him. Because seeing what the knowledge of Kíli's fate would do to her would remind you too much of your own loss, your own pain._

Fíli sighs again and hefts himself out of bed as abruptly as one can manage with limited control over one's legs. Enough of those musings about matters of the heart. Concerning Kíli he certainly has other things to worry about than his brother's ill-advised affections for their would-be enemies.

And when it comes to himself... well. He has more than enough on his plate already without obsessing over what a certain young Bowman's daughter thinks of him, right? In all likelihood, there isn't even anything to obsess about. They come from different worlds and just because they have been friendly with each other on a handful of occasions, that does not mean that anything _more _might ever happen. Or that Sigrid would even want that. Want him. Old(er), lame, broken.

Right, and when she spoke about knowing exactly what she wants, she was talking about her dinner preferences. Kíli's voice again, taunting him.

He groans in frustration and pulls his shirt over his head just in time for a knock on the door. His heart, treacherous thing that it is, gives a little leap that has him answering the door in a greater state of agitation than he is strictly comfortable with.

It's Balin.

Fighting extremely hard not to show his completely unwarranted disappointment, Fíli lets the older Dwarf in, swiftly clearing the low table by the window so that Balin can relieve himself of the various scrolls, books, and sheaves of parchment he nowadays appears to be carrying with him wherever he goes. Fíli arches an eyebrow at the impressive stack of papers.

"Shouldn't those stacks be dwindling in size instead of growing like weeds?"

He's only half joking. This past week he has spent more time pouring over maps, reading letters and analyzing charts than in the last eighty-two years taken together. He has vowed to himself to fulfill his new duties with as much dedication as possible, but by Durin's beard, who knew that ruling a kingdom could be so bloody tedious most of the time.

Balin looks apologetic. "I know, I know. The more of our people keep arriving, the faster we need to work on rebuilding the parts of the mountain that are not currently inhabitable. I've brought some preliminary plans for you to look at."

Fíli nods. That, at least, sounds more interesting than working out the exact details of trading contracts concerning goods such as grain and flour. "What else?" he asks, inclining his head towards what appears to be a stack of letters.

Balin shifts uncomfortably in the seat he has taken in one of Fíli's two armchairs.

Great, what now? Fíli wonders.

"We've had words from the Blue Mountains," Balin finally offers. "Several of the old families will not come. Not now, anyways."

Up until now, Fíli has been standing behind the remaining chair, leaning on its backrest. Now he walks around the piece of furniture and sits down, sinking into the cushions with a sigh. "Alright. Do they say why?"

"Not directly, no." Balin frowns, looking at his hands. After a few moments of silence he says, "I believe they are having difficulties to trust that all this—" he vaguely gestures around himself with his arms, "—is going to last. Many of them had a hard time trusting Thorin, and, well, now that he is gone..."

"They want to make sure that I'm not just some muppet playing king on his uncle's throne," Fíli supplies.

Balin looks contrite. "Not exactly the words I would have chosen, but yes, I believe something of that sort to be the essence behind their hesitation."

Fíli considers this for a moment. "That's not too bad then. We can still convince them."

Balin nods, not quite meeting his eye, though. Fíli discovers the reason for that a moment later, when the older Dwarf hands him a letter. "This is from your mother."

Fíli accepts the letter and unfolds it, noticing in passing that the seal has already been broken. He makes a mental note never to put anything too embarrassing in letters since, apparently, confidentiality of written communication is not among a king's privileges. He skims the letter, his eyes flying over Dís' familiar handwriting.

She, too, will not come, not in time for his coronation, at least. In her letter, Dís argues that she would help his cause better if she stayed at the Blue Mountains for the time being, keeping those who would question his authority as King under the Mountain in check. While she certainly has a point with that, Fíli is not too naive to miss the subtle hints in his mother's writing that suggest that she cannot bring herself yet to confront the loss of her brother and youngest son.

And while the boy inside of him aches for the familiar embrace of his mother, he cannot help but feel a certain amount of relief at the fact that she will stay in Ered Luin for now. How can he face her, after everything that happened? Dís never practiced any sort of favoritism with her sons and both he and Kíli had the privilege to grow up with equal shares of their mother's love. Still, Kíli was her "wee one", her little boy, whose misadventures always kept her in a perpetuate state of of worry over his safety and then relief over his safe deliverance.

No, it will surely be better if they both allow their wounds to heal before they meet again.

Fíli looks up from the letter in his hands to find Balin staring at him expectantly. "I'm not going to break down over this, " he informs the white-haired Dwarf, offering him a weak grin.

Balin nods quite earnestly despite the joke. "Good. Because I need you level-headed for that next bit of correspondence which I received today."

Fíli arches an eyebrow. And here he thought his morning would be boring. "There's more?"

Balin does not reply, but reaches for a stack of four or five letters and pushes them towards Fíli's side of the table.

"What's this?" Fíli asks, reaching for the topmost envelope. The seal on it he does not recognize.

Balin clears his throat. "Offers of marriage, it would seem."

"Offers of—From whom?" Fíli splutters. And then, after a moment's pause, "_To _whom?"

"Well, to you, obviously," Balin says as calmly as if they were discussing grains and flour again. "Clearly there are plenty of families who do trust you as king – at least sufficiently to offer the hands of their daughters in marriage. Firebeards, Broadbeams, Longbeards – take your pick. There is at least one family in each of the clans that is eager to tie their house to your line."

"I can't just marry one of their daughters!" Fíli exclaims, abruptly rising from his seat. The letters he had been holding slide to the floor, but he pays them no heed.

Balin smiles indulgently. "Don't worry, no one means for you to hold a wedding tomorrow, or anytime soon. Considering the current state of affairs, I would say that a long engagement is advisable. Plenty of time to get to know your future wife."

Despite Balin's calm reassurances, Fíli feels like fleeing the room. Not knowing what else to do with the agitation rising inside of him, he takes a few forceful steps and comes to stand at his window, his back turned to the Dwarf in his company.

He tries to even out his breathing, to not let his posture reflect the turmoil inside of him. He cannot let Balin see that his first impulse at the suggestion of marriage has not been reluctance to become betrothed to someone he barely knows, but despair at the realization that his heart is not his to give to whomever he pleases. Certainly not to a young, non-dwarven woman.

It doesn't make a difference, he tells himself. Even if he were free to do as he pleases, there are still a million reasons why nothing can come of this unexpected, inappropriate infatuation with Bard's eldest daughter.

"I would prefer not to make any decisions regarding that matter as of yet," he says aloud, hoping to buy himself at least a little bit of time while he deals with his wayward feelings.

There's a rustle of paper as Balin sorts through the stacks piled on the table, probably dividing those he will take with him from those he will leave behind for Fíli to review. "As I said, there is no need to rush into things," he says. "Keeping the families waiting for too long, would be unwise, however. It's a sensitive matter and we wouldn't want to injure anyone's pride."

Fíli cannot stop his shoulders from sagging a little. "Let me sleep on it, alright?" he says resignedly.

"You do that, laddie," Balin mutters, his continued use of the informal address despite the recent changes in the dynamics of their relationship making Fíli smile slightly, despite himself.

He hears the older Dwarf head towards the door. Before Balin can pass through, however, Fíli turns, a thought just having crossed his mind.

"Thorin never married," he says. "And somehow I cannot imagine that that would have changed if he was still king."

He hates sounding like a petulant child, but cannot quite help it. It is one thing to have his letters opened, but another to have his feelings dictated.

Balin pauses with his hand already on the door handle. "Thorin had you and Kíli lined up as heirs," he says carefully, knowing that mentioning the younger Durin brother always bears a certain risk nowadays. And then, after a thoughtful pause, "Your uncle had a difficult life, fraught with tragedy. Do not envy him for never managing to find any personal happiness."

Fíli drops his gaze, ashamed of himself. "I'm sorry. I spoke out of turn."

"There is no need to apologize." Balin's voice is gentle. "You've had your own share of tragedy as of late. But that does not mean that there isn't a chance of brighter days ahead. Not tomorrow, not next week, but sometime. If you allow it."

Fíli presses his lips together and nods. Balin does not need or deserve another reiteration of the fact that without Kíli at his side, happiness will be a very difficult thing to obtain. The older Dwarf knows this, of course, and the fact that he still refuses to give up on Fíli as a hopeless case speaks more of his friendship and loyalty than if he simply allowed him to wallow in his grief.

Be that as it may – if an arranged marriage is the right way to achieve said happiness, Fíli has his doubts about. For the time being, though, he tries to convince his mind of the necessity to at least consider the offers made to him in earnest, for the sake of his kingdom. To some extent he is successful, for as he watches Balin leave he feels more collected once again. As Balin said, there is still time, no need to panic now.

If only that treacherous, treacherous heart of his were are easy to convince of that as his mind.


	11. Day 37

**Day 37**

"You talk to him."

"No, you go first. You're older than me."

"Yes, by two whole minutes for Mahal's sake!"

"Those two minutes were enough for you every time you snatched up the last piece of cake, invoking your 'right of the older brother'!"

"Really? You're going to make this about cake?"

Fíli hears a slight scuffle behind himself and straightens up, casting a confused glance over his shoulder.

It has been thirty-seven days. There's still no news of Kíli. Sigrid still hasn't come to see him (which is probably for the better, but that does not mean that he cannot still feel rather disgruntled about it) and he's had three more offers of marriage since Balin first brought up the whole matter. Fíli feels that he is not in a very good place right now and has decided that he needs a change from his daily routines of holding council with some of the others and going over plans and treaties. To this end, he has joined one of the crews working on restoring the inside of the mountain and is currently helping to clean out a passage that has been blocked as the result of a dragon throwing a tantrum in the halls of his forefathers not too long ago.

Now he turns to find two young Dwarves squabbling behind him, one holding the other in a headlock and messing up his already rather shaggy hair. Fíli is not familiar with either of them, but he does not have to be to know that they are brothers. For Dwarves, they are rather tall and wiry, with sharp, angular features and bright, quick eyes. They are the spitting image of one another, except for the color of their hair and beards, for while one has hair so fair that it borders on white, the other's mane and beard are of a staggering, orange red.

They would make terrible hunters, glowing like a pair of torches no matter in which environment you put them, Fíli thinks as he watches in complete bewilderment while the two of them wrestle with each other. When things look to be getting rather rough between the brothers, Fíli clears his throat.

The two young Dwarves let go of each other immediately and whirl around to face him, looking as if they had quite forgotten he's there.

Red-faced, the blonde one lurches into a deep bow, grabbing his brother by the neck as he does so and pulling him down with him.

"Thad," he says.

"Flad," the other grunts, swatting at his brother's hand on his neck.

They both straighten up to face Fíli, their hair sticking out in all possible and impossible directions. "At your service," they say in unison.

Fíli feels his heart grow heavy as lead and he reaches for his cane leaning against the wall, just so his suddenly trembling hands have something to do. Clutching the grip of his cane tightly, he leans on it, relieving his throbbing right leg of some of his bodyweight.

_Ah, Kíli. If only you were here._

Thad and Flad exchange a concerned look at his suddenly stony expression and his silence, but he cannot help it. If he moves or speaks, he fears that he might fall apart.

While Fíli struggles to retain his crumbling composure, Flad knocks his elbow into his brother's ribs, motioning towards Fíli with his head. Thad glares at the redhead but takes a hesitant step forward.

"We've been meaning to offer you our unconditional services," he says, his head respectfully lowered.

Flad steps forward as well, nodding eagerly. "Hunting, fighting, construction work, sweeping floors - no matter what you require."

Thad has narrowed his eyes at that last one in the row of services his brother has offered, but Fíli barely notices. He takes a moment to appraise the attire of the young Dwarves before him. They're from the Iron Hills, obviously, the clasps on their belts and a few of the trinkets they wear in their disorderly beards and manes sporting runes which identify them as Dáin's men. He stares at them in confusion.

"Why?" he asks bluntly, any more elaborately posed question made impossible by the tightness in his throat he still hasn't managed to rid himself of.

Thad and Flad exchange a look. "We've seen you fight side by side with the rest of your company," Thad says. "And—and we just wanted to be a part of that. To fight by your side in any battle the future might bring."

"We are aware that some of our kin have not been very... _supportive _since the battle," Flad throws in. "But we wanted to declare that we are not like them. That we are loyal to _you_, above all."

Fíli gapes at their hopeful, young faces. His first impulse is to turn them away – too painful are the memories of brotherhood which they invoke. But then he remembers how it felt to be young and constantly patronized by his elders, how he and Kíli had to fight relentlessly for each and every small opportunity to prove their worth.

He sighs.

"Well, then," he says, "so it shall be. I hereby accept your offer and promise you my trust and protection in exchange for your loyalty and services."

Despite the rather stiff formality of his words, the two brothers beam at him.

"Thank you," Flad says earnestly. "You will no regret it."

Fíli has a very vague premonition that he might, but merely inclines his head in acceptance of the younger Dwarf's promise.

A silence ensues that is slightly longer than what is commonly regarded as comfortable.

"So," Thad says eventually, drawing out the syllable, "is there anything you would like us to do?"

Oh. Fíli hadn't taken their offer quite so literally.

He glances over his shoulder at the enormous heap of rubble behind him and decides that he deserves a day off.

"I believe I need a drink," he says, turning back to the two brothers. "A bit of company would be good."

The look of utter elation on the two Dwarves' faces is rather entertaining and they scramble to fall into step beside him, launching immediately into gushing praises of the latest batch of mead delivered from the Iron Hills. Fíli allows himself to be swept up by their enthusiasm, just for a little while.

He won't mend his broken heart today, nor will he rebuild Erebor. But it's good to have made some new friends. Mahal knows he is in dire need of those.

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

Kíli's face is hovering above his own, so close, so close. But his brother is not looking at him, his eyes open and yet unseeing. There is something otherworldly about Kíli, something that sends a shiver up Fíli's spine. It's still Kíli whom he sees, but somehow he's... _more_.

Fíli becomes aware of a bright light. At first he thinks it originates from somewhere behind his brother, but then it is almost as if Kíli himself exudes this bright, white light and it grows and grows in intensity until Fíli can see nothing other than Kíli, his lips forming words which Fíli cannot make sense of.

There is a loud bang of some sort and a sharp pain at the back of his head that swiftly turns into a dull throbbing. Kíli, the bright light and the warm, safe feeling in Fíli's chest have disappeared to be replaced by darkness, the coldness of hard stone seeping into his bones.

Confused, Fíli opens his eyes and finds himself lying on his back, staring up at a high ceiling which is supported by massive gray stone pillars all around him. The pain in his head and a queasy feeling inside his stomach serve as instant reminders why it is never – absolutely _never_ – a good idea to indulge in daytime drinking. Especially with two fellows who appear to regard it as their honorable duty to ensure that their young king drains absolutely every tankard placed before him to the very last drop.

Fíli groans and rubs a hand across his face, deciding that for now the safest course of action is to stay exactly where he is, sprawled on the ground. At least until he has figured out where he is and how in Durin's name he got there.

A smell enters his nose, one he is not particularly used to. It's a dry, slightly musty smell and he has to hold back a sneeze when he inhales the dusty air a little too deeply. Books. It smells like books.

He risks moving his eyes to his right and then to his left, all the while keeping his pounding head completely still. Yes. It appears that his inebriated steps have guided him to Erebor's library of all places. Now that his whereabouts are less of a mystery, some very vague recollections of stumbling amidst long, high shelves, not quite knowing whether he is looking for a book, his bottle or a set of hazel eyes pop into his head. He closes his own eyes.

_Fool. Stupid, drunk fool._

"That cannot be very comfortable."

Fíli's eyes shoot open and he sharply turns his head, his vision spinning in the most sickening manner until the figure standing beside the low stool he must have fallen off during his nap comes into focus.

Her.

Of course its her. At what other possible time, when he has secretly waited for days for her to follow up on his invitation, could she finally come find him than when he is sprawled out on the library floor, in that utterly helpless state between being already hungover and still drunk. Fate, it seems, always has an even more embarrassing scenario in store for each of their encounters.

Or maybe it's not fate at all, he admits, but his own foolishness he has to blame for this. Be that as it may, he cringes as he stares up at Sigrid, who is eyeing him with a mixture of amusement and worry. She looks fresh faced, like she has just taken a hike (she probably has, he realizes) and her eyes are bright. She looks altogether lovely.

Fíli, meanwhile, feels like an enormous pile of horseshit. Groggily he sits up, trying not to sway as the room tilts first right, then left. He grasps the edge of the nearest table, pulling himself off the ground.

"I was just—" he begins, but then falters. "It's not what it looks—" Again, he breaks off. Ah, sod it all. He raises his bleary eyes to meet her calm gaze. "You know what, it's precisely what it looks like. I got ragingly drunk in the middle of the day and then fell off my seat while sleeping it off."

There. Better for her to see him as he really is, to maybe quench that spark of tender admiration he thought he saw in her eyes during their last two encounters. He is not a prince in shining armor, galloping around on a white horse. They might refer to him as king nowadays (some, anyways), but he is a warrior first and foremost, accustomed to a harsh life on the road and the considerable amount of coarseness that comes with it. Also, he carries more than a little baggage.

If he has expected Sigrid to recoil at his very blunt assertion, he could not have been more wrong. Her already bright eyes light up with exhilaration and she laughs, not even bothering to stifle the sound as it echoes through the high-ceilinged room. For a moment, Fíli simply stares at her, but then he, too, cannot stop a smile from stretching across his face and he chuckles, the ridiculousness of the whole situation not even lost on him as the object of her mirth.

He shouldn't be that surprised by her reaction, he surmises, seeing that the first time she laid eyes on him, he had just climbed out of her toilet. He cannot look much worse now than he did then, can he?

"I thought as much," Sigrid comments once she has calmed down sufficiently to speak, dabbing at the corners of her eyes with the edge of her sleeve. Mahal, could she look more breathtaking than this? "I can come back another time, if you would rather continue with your... _studies,_" she says and glances at the random selection of books Fíli has apparently been using as a pillow.

"No!" Fíli all but shouts, and then winces. "No," he repeats in a more composed tone of voice, "please stay. I invited you to come, after all."

Sigrid smiles, more shyly this time. "I was not sure if you were really serious about that."

"Of course I was," Fíli assures her, surprised by her sudden insecurity. Wasn't she teasing him just a minute ago? He considers his next words carefully before speaking. "Is that why it took you so long to follow my invitation? I thought—I thought you might have changed your mind."

He doesn't dare say it, but hopes she can read between the lines that he was waiting for her and that he really did want her to come. That even if it is unwise, even if her reasons might not be the same as his (_Might very well be!_ his inner Kíli exclaims), he could not be happier to finally see her again.

"I—no—I mean, yes...," Sigrid stammers and blushes. She takes a brief moment to collect herself and Fíli lets her have it, his need to understand what is going on in her head inexplicably urgent. "I was a little worried that my visit might not be as welcome as I would like it to be," she finally admits. "But that was not the main reason I did not come. Tilda was ill, and I did not want to leave her until she was better."

"And she is now?" Fíli asks, his memories of the usually cheerful little girl nothing but fond. "What was the matter with her?"

"Ah, nothing too serious," Sigrid returns, but Fíli can tell that she is pleased by his concern for her little sister. "Just a bit of a fever. My father even found a nurse who would have been happy to stay with her until the fever passed, but I wanted to do it myself. It's... it's always been like this. She needs me and not some stranger, even if they mean nothing but well."

"You don't have to explain yourself," Fíli assures her. That earns him another of her lovely smiles and when once again he begins to fear that he might do something foolish, he breaks eye-contact to fiddle with the binding of one of the books resting on the table beside him. "Whenever Kíli was sick, I did not move from his side. Even when we were children and had our mother to take care of us, I could not be coaxed away from his bedside until the worst of whatever he had contracted had passed." He smiles faintly. "Of course that meant that I caught most of the things he had as well, to our mother's chagrin. I did not care one bit, though."

For a moment he is lost in those memories of his brother and blinks in surprise when Sigrid's hand suddenly covers his on top of the book he has been tinkering with. Her touch is as light as a feather, but same as on that night under the starry skies above Erebor, it sears a mark straight onto his heart.

"I saw you care for your brother at our house, when he was so very sick," she says softly. "I could tell that the bond between you was unusually strong."

Fíli looks from their hands to her face. She isn't very tall, and he only has to tilt his head back a tiny bit to meet her gaze. He expected to find pity there, but is relieved to be met only with gentle understanding. He swallows against the tightness in his throat. "Kíli – he's a part of me," he says. "Even now that he is not here and even if he may never be again."

Sigrid does not say anything, but her fingers tighten around his hand by a fraction, and Fíli is nearly overwhelmed by the need to turn his hand under hers, entwine his strong, calloused fingers with her delicate ones. Before he can do so, however, his mouth goes ahead and ruins the tender moment.

"So, what kind of books would you like to look for?"

He thinks he catches a look of disappointment flash across Sigrid's face, but she recovers immediately and smiles, slowly withdrawing her hand from his. The version of Kíli which Fíli keeps channeling inside his head is having a hysterical fit.

"I—I don't know, " she says, looking around herself in awe. "This place is much bigger than I expected. "

"Didn't think Dwarves would be very avid readers?"

Her cheeks redden. "No, I wasn't—" She notices his teasing grin and relaxes. "It is just unlike anything I have ever seen," she admits. "Most buildings at Lake-town were smaller – much smaller – than just this room. It's... _magnificent_."

He smiles at her enthusiasm and feels a small surge of pride for his heritage – something he has not experienced very often since everything has gone so disastrously wrong.

"Would you like to have a look around?" he asks.

Her eyes return from their journey through the room and meet his. "I'd like that very much. "

For some utterly embarrassing reason he feels his face heat up at her words and tries to hide the color in his cheeks by turning away from her. "Follow me then. I must warn you, though. Knowing my kin, half of these shelves are most likely filled with reports and accounts, detailing who lend whom how much money and how that debt is to be repaid. Also, a lot of the works are written in runes. Not all of them, though."

He leads her down a row of shelves towards the center of the library where he knows another, bigger reading area to be located than the one she just found him in. He has started walking before he realized that he has forgotten his cane and with the additional ailment of the relentless pounding in his head he thinks it wise to stay within the reach of a seat, for now.

"This is... I do not even know where to begin," Sigrid mumbles in awe, trailing her fingers along the spines of the dusty volumes lining the shelves.

"Wherever you like," Fíli returns. "You— you do not have to look at it all today. You can always come back."

He turns his head to look at her over his shoulder, something he shouldn't have done, for her happy smile at his renewed invitation promptly causes him to misplace his step and he stumbles, knocking into the shelves to his right with his shoulder. A couple of scrolls tumble down onto his head and clatter to the ground, but before he can lose his balance entirely and join them on the floor, an arm is wrapped around his waist, pulling him into an upright position once more.

He turns and stares up at Sigrid who now has one arm looped around his back, her other hand resting lightly on his chest. Any words he might have spoken become lodged in his throat when he gazes into her eyes, wide with concern and something else, something much less easily contained.

"Are you alright?" she asks in a voice that is most definitely a little husky, not relinquishing her hold onto him even though their bodies are very, very close.

He nods, his face feeling quite warm, and not just from embarrassment over his little mishap. "I'm sorry," he stammers. "I swear, it's not because of the drinking. My legs... they are still not working quite the way they should."

"It's fine," she assures him. "There is nothing you need to apologize for. Will you—will you allow me to help you?"

He nods, not quite meeting her eye. This is not at all going how he imagined their next meeting to be like – not that the fantasies he had entertained about that were any less mortifying, but at least in them he did not make a fool of himself time and again.

Aided by Sigrid, Fíli hobbles towards the sitting area they had been headed for anyways and sinks onto a chair, staring at his right leg in dismay. It's always worst in the afternoon, and now he can barely flex it anymore and has to stretch it out in front of him instead. Mahal, he's become rather pathetic, hasn't he?

When he finally dares to lift his eyes again, he finds Sigrid watching him with a thoughtful expression. Then she appears to make up her mind about something and lowers herself to the ground next to him, shrugging out of her coat and pushing up the sleeves of her simple grey, woolen dress.

Fíli watches in astonishment as she reaches for his leg, her slender yet unexpectedly strong fingers wrapping themselves around his calf. He flinches – it's like being touched by lightning, every inch of his skin responding to the gentle pressure she exerts.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Sigrid assures him, loosening her grip. "Do you trust me?"

Well, pain is not exactly the result Fíli is worried about when it comes to the effect of having her hands on his body, but of course he cannot tell her that and finds himself nodding mutely, his face rather warm.

Sigrid offers him a small smile that is clearly meant to be reassuring but does nothing to slow down his erratic heartbeat. Then her hands are on his leg again and she begins working on his muscles, the pressure of her fingers coming and going in quick succession. As her fingers work their way up towards his knee and then back down to his calf once more, Fíli finds himself slowly beginning to relax, his breathing calmer, more steady than just a minute ago. What she is doing to him is not completely painless, but it is a good kind of pain, if such a thing exists.

"How come you know how to do this?" he asks her as he feels some of the tension in his leg beginning to fade, its stiffness gradually receding.

Sigrid keeps up her work for another few moments before answering.

"Back at Lake-town my father wasn't exactly the Master's favorite person," she says. For the first time since he has known her, Fíli hears anger seep into her voice. "His men used to seek out every opportunity to come after him, and every so often they would find a reason to beat him up. I always took care of him, after."

She continues massaging his leg, lost in her memories for a minute or two. "Sometimes the damage was only superficial, a couple of bruises and scratches that healed within days. A few times, though, his injuries would give him trouble long after the bruises were gone and especially after a cold, damp day out on his barge he would come limping home, hissing with pain at every step that he took. Over the years I developed a few treatments that would help him in those cases – alleviate some of the pain."

"I'm sorry you had to go through that," Fíli says earnestly, a number of Khuzdul curses on his tongue. In the end, he opts for some less violent words - for the day, Sigrid has experienced her share of questionable behavior, he believes. "That Master was a horrible man."

Still bent over his leg, Sigrid shrugs. "It's fine. After all the bad things that have happened, I'm not scared that easily anymore. I like to think that they made me stronger."

Fíli cannot see her face, but wishes that he could, so that he might judge better if she really feels that way.

"That is a very rational way to view the whole matter," he says carefully, not wanting to cause her any more pain that she already been through. "You do have every right to feel angry about the bad things that happened to you and your family."

"I find that cold, calculated reason is often the only way to stay sane with those terrible things that just keep happening," she returns, and this time Fíli is sure that he can detect a hint of sadness in her voice. But then she looks up at him and he watches her face change, her pain making way for something equally raw, but much less somber. "I am not always that reasonable, though," she says, her eyes shining. Her hands are still on his leg, one just above his knee and the other on his calf, but have stopped kneading his muscles and he can feel their warmth seep through the fabric of his trousers and into his skin. "There are some things in my heart that I know I should not be feeling, but no amount of reasoning can make them go away."

"What sort of things?" Fíli hears himself ask before he can stop the words from escaping, his voice hoarse.

His inner Kíli has begun conducting a strange little dance. Do something! he shouts. Anything! Take her hand, kiss her, but for Mahal's sake, move!

And yet Fíli remains frozen in place, staring at the young woman in front of him. There's a tug at his heart and he desperately wants to move toward her but doesn't, knowing that if he did, there would be no stopping those feelings he has been trying to rein in so desperately.

Sigrid's eyes are wide as they study his and Fíli suspects that she understands the fight raging within him because it is her fight as well. She opens her mouth to answer his question, but before a single sound leaves her lips, they are both startled by the chiming of the large clock at the far end of the library. Someone must have repaired it quite recently, for Fíli is quite sure that the last time he set foot in the library its hands had been frozen at exactly half past one.

"Five o'clock," Sigrid observes with a small. frown. "I—I should leave. It will be dark soon."

Despite her words she has yet to move, her hands still in the exact same position they were before. Before he can have a change of heart, Fíli reaches out and covers the hand resting above his knee with his own. He meant to say something to accompany his action, but now the words won't come and all he can do is exhale in relief when, after a moment, Sigrid turns her hand under his and returns the pressure of his hand, allowing this small, innocent gesture to say what big words can never express.

_If things were different..._

"You still haven't looked at any of the books," Fíli says, deliberately breaking the moment before it becomes too much to bear.

Sigrid looks almost grateful, her cheeks more than a little flushed now. "So I really will need to come back another time, I suppose."

"Please do." Fíli smiles at her as she picks up her coat and rises to her feet, giving her small hand a last, gentle squeeze before releasing it.

This might be all he will ever get from her, stolen moments fraught with a powerful current running beneath the surface, something trying to break free that cannot be allowed to take control over their actions. But even so, he's going to take it. Over and over again.

Sigrid steps away, holding his gaze for a little while longer before finally turning and disappearing amongst the shelves. He stares after her for a long time, and when the last trace of warmth her touch has left behind on his skin is gone, he finds himself wondering if all that really just happened or if it was just another ale-induced dream.

He is not entirely sure which of the two he prefers.

... _to be continued_...

_A/N: If you've also read "The Gift", the chapter which Fíli's dream of Kíli corresponds to would be Chapter 17. _


	12. Day 61

_A/N: Jumping ahead here by a little bit. We've still got plenty of days to cover after all and I was serious about not turning this into a story with 192 chapters..._

**Day 61**

Fíli has his birthday on the sixty-first day and he drinks himself into a stupor, hoping that he will have no memory of the day whatsoever come morning. It's his first birthday without Kíli except for the first four, but he cannot remember those and so they do not count.

His brethren have gone out of their way to make his day enjoyable, but drinks and festive entertainment can only do so much. They certainly cannot fill the hole Kíli has left behind. And so Fíli finds himself at the head of the table in the Great Hall, flanked by Thad and Flad who appear to have assumed the roles of his official birthday planners, guiding him through each of the day's steps with such enthusiasm that Fíli finds it easy to let go and allow the celebrations to wash over him.

His goblet keeps refilling itself without him ever asking for more, but he does not pause to question that, knocking back whatever is inside it without much hesitation. Kíli's absence is not the only grievance he would like to put out of his mind today, even though it is by far the most painful one. Last night found Balin in his quarters, wearing, as he so often does these days during their one on one sessions, an expression that was as careful as it was serious.

"What else is it that you have on your mind? " Fíli asked him when they were through with their usual routine and the worried frown still had not quite left Balin's face.

He watched Balin shuffle through his papers for a minute or two. "I was wondering," the older Dwarf came out with eventually, "what your thoughts are on the matter of tying yourself to one of the houses who have expressed an interest to do so. "

The fact that Balin avoided terms such as marriage, wife or wedding did not escape Fíli's notice. Still, that did not make the matter any less appalling. Two houses had sent delegates since they had first discussed the matter; among those two groups were also the young Dwarf women selected as suitable candidates for a match with the King by the heads of their houses.

Dóta, daughter of Dofri of the honorable clan of the Longbeards, and Gísla, daughter of Bórr of the house of Broadbeam, are both exceptionally well-bred Dwarf women whom every Dwarf should feel honored to be permitted to court.

Should.

For the past two weeks, Fíli has spent every encounter with either of the two reminding himself of that fact, but instead of getting closer, has found himself drifting further from them, the realization that he truly might end up married to either of them making it impossible to look beyond the masks they, like most of us, wear for the public.

Dóta enjoys gossip, and every time Fíli is alone with her, he finds his mind straying from their rather trivial conversation and more than once she has called him out on it, rightfully hurt by his inconsiderate behavior. Gísla, meanwhile, is a stout, competitive woman who shies away from neither verbal nor physical confrontation, and while these are both qualities that are generally appreciated in Dwarf women, Fíli cannot stop images of softer skin and more slender limbs from entering his head when he looks at her.

Images of what he cannot have.

And so, when Balin brought the matter back onto the table last night, Fíli found his throat constrict with a by now familiar sort of panic.

"I—I need more time," he said, hoping that Balin would let him off easy.

That was not the case.

"I do not mean to pry," the white-beared Dwarf said, still fussing with his documents to avoid looking at Fíli. "But I am afraid there is a certain amount of... _discontent _to be found amongst our guests regarding your personal investment into the forging of those... _friendships_. A discontent we cannot afford to allow to fester until it grows into something less easily managed."

The complexity of Balin's grammar had Fíli struggling for a moment and when he finally caught on he sighed and decided to be open with his friend and cherished advisor. "I'm still having difficulties with the idea of binding myself to a complete stranger in such an... _intimate_ way," he admitted.

"That is why they are here though, are they not? To allow you to get to know them?" As always, Balin's astute assessment of the situation did not leave much room for arguing. Still...

"What if I don't like what I find?" Fíli shot back, beginning to feel irritable at the intrusion into what – in another life – should have been his private affairs.

Balin abandoned his stack of parchment for the time being and leaned back in his chair, surveying Fíli with watchful eyes. "Your hesitation regarding that matter would not have something to do with the visits of a certain bowman's daughter that have, as I hear, become a somewhat regular occurrence?"

Fíli stared back at Balin in horror. _He knows. Shit, shit, shit, he knows._

Over the course of the past few weeks, Sigrid has repeated her visit to Erebor's library more than once, a fact that has considerably brightened Fíli's otherwise rather dull days. However, while his feelings about those visits might be found reprehensible if anyone knew their true extent, Fíli can at least say that each and every one of their encounters has been perfectly innocent.

During her second inspection of the library, it has come to light that Sigrid has a strong proclivity for healing lore, midwifery in particular. Óin, who was the one to introduce her to that section of the library, has been rather delighted to meet someone who appreciates his knowledge in those areas and ever since that day, he and Sigrid have met as often as possible, the young woman eagerly absorbing anything the old Dwarf has to offer.

Fíli usually manages to find an excuse to drop by the library when she's there, delighting in watching her come alive with the prospect of making new discoveries and advancing her already rather substantial knowledge. He always feels a little torn whether he should be disappointed or relieved that nowadays he only gets to see her in the presence of others, but regardless of his own feelings about that matter, it probably is for the best. Maybe they can overcome that slight awkwardness of those earlier, private encounters and chalk those lingering feelings of tenderness up to their general confusion in the aftermath of the battle. Maybe they can become friends.

Sure, keep telling yourself that, Kíli's voice drawled in his mind when he once more rehearsed those facts in case he needed to defend himself in front of Balin. He scowled at that imagined version of his brother.

"I'm not quite sure what it is that you mean to imply," he said aloud in response to Balin's question. "As daughter of the King of Dale I felt it only right to grant her access to our library if that is where she wishes to go. All within the framework of sustaining a productive relationship with Dale and its people."

Since his initiation into the workings of politics, Fíli has made great progress at clearing his face of any trace of feeling. Faced with Balin's scrutiny, he thus managed to keep a calm face, even though his insides were trembling with both fear at being found out and indignation at having his innermost thoughts so openly investigated. Balin continued to study him for a long, long time until, finally, he leaned forward in his chair and picked up those sodding papers once more.

"What is in your heart remains your own business," he commented, causing Fíli to fear that he had seen beyond his mask anyway. "Whatever that is can however not be allowed to interfere with the stability of your reign. But I trust that you are aware of that, are you not?"

Fíli found himself nodding slowly. "Fully aware," he said, not wanting to give away how accurate Balin's insights into his feelings really were. "I will try to be more considerate in my dealings with the clans and their daughters."

To his utmost relief, Balin dropped the matter then and left him to his own contemplation. Still, that whole conversation has left behind an unsettling feeling he would rather purge from his mind.

He grabs the tankard placed before him by a coyly smiling Dóta and downs the whole thing just as Bofur jumps onto a table and breaks into song.

"There is an inn, there's an inn, there's a merry old inn..."

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

The sun has barely set when Fíli leaves the gathering held in honor of his birthday and is accompanied by loud cheers and booming laughter. It's not particularly polite to leave one's own party at such an early hour, but his brethren did not need to look at him twice to know that he is well and truly finished for the day. And so they have sent him on his merry way after being so kind to point him in the right direction when he began stumbling about the room, not able to locate the door.

Now, out in the dimly lit hallways, he takes a moment to lean against the wall, wincing slightly when the long corridor continues to move for a bit even after he has gone completely still. Well, this was his aim all along, was it not? All he needs to do now is make it to his rooms, sleep it off and begin tomorrow like any usual day (with a bit of a headache, probably, but he'll not think about that right now).

Chuckling when a crash resounding from inside the Great Hall announces that Bofur must finally have managed to fall off the table, Fíli rights himself – keeping one hand on the wall just to be on the safe side – and slowly begins his journey back to his quarters. He's quite confident that he knows where he is going and so there is absolutely no logical explanation why he suddenly finds himself in a cluttered storage room when really he should be standing inside his bedroom by now.

It's dark inside the room and in the small amount of light leaking into it from the hallway, Fíli stumbles about helplessly, managing to send a number of metallic items – Shields? Bedpans? – to the floor with a loud clatter before tripping over something sharp edged, cursing out loud when pain shoots up his leg from where his shin made contact with said object. Hopping about on one leg – his bad one, to make matters worse – Fíli suddenly finds the floor and the ceiling swap positions and when he gathers his bearings once more, he is lying face down on the floor, the cool stone beneath his cheek surprisingly pleasant against his flushed skin.

Maybe he'll stay here, just for a little bit, get some well-deserved rest after all...

"Fíli? Fíli? Are you hurt?"

A cool hand on the back of his neck, then on his cheek. Fíli instinctively leans into the touch before blinking his eyes open. He's quite sure he hasn't fallen asleep, just closed his eyes for a second or two. And now Sigrid is kneeling beside him, a worried frown creasing her usually so smooth face.

"What on earth happened here?" she asks, taking in the mess of fallen objects – bedpans, after all – with wide eyes.

With a grunt, Fíli rolls onto his back and rubs a hand across his face before he starts laughing, the sound loud, bellowing in the cramped space. This never gets old, does it?

Sigrid fixes him with a concerned stare. "Do you need me to fetch someone?"

Fíli pushes himself up onto his elbows, trying to get a hold of himself but failing miserably. The number of ways in which he manages to make a fool of himself in front of her appears infinite. Maybe, if things continue in this manner, he can stop worrying about his growing attachment to her altogether, for before long she will not want to have anything to do with his pathetic, impulsive, altogether boorish self.

When Sigrid looks as if she is about to rise and call for help, he finally manages to regain some measure of control over his mirth and he reaches out to take her hand, missing by a few inches and grabbing her sleeve instead. "No," he gets out, "no, I'm just fine. No need to worry."

She sinks back onto her heels and quirks an eyebrow at him, the slightly slurred manner of his speech not having escaped her. "Another instance of daytime drinking, then?"

Fíli cannot quite tell if she is amused or disgusted by that prospect, but even if it were the latter, there would be no way for him to deny the truth of her assessment. "I'm afraid so," he says, rolling his eyes at himself in an uncommonly theatrical manner. That, at least, elicits a little giggle from her. "I've an excuse for it, this time, though."

"Really? Whatever might be the occasion?"

As she speaks, Sigrid smiles softly and reaches out to take his arm, helping him to sit up further. They are now sitting opposite each other in the small, dimly lit space, she on her knees and he with his back against a wooden crate.

"My birthday," Fíli mumbles, losing some of his mirth when he recalls what it was that caused him to get so terribly wasted in the first place.

"Oh," Sigrid says, "I had no idea. But now I see why I could not find Óin at the library."

Fíli nods and regrets it immediately, for now both Sigrid and the storage room are moving up and down in a sickening manner. "Óin's still with the others, partaking in the celebrations," he manages, closing his eyes to stop that feeling of being on a ship in nasty weather from getting to him.

"Why aren't you with them then, if it is your birthday they are celebrating?"

Fíli shrugs, his eyes still closed. Mahal, he's really, really tired. "'M done for the day," he mutters. "'s no use celebrating. Not without Kíli."

The room is silent for a few moments. Fíli thinks he might fall asleep for real this time, but then he feels Sigrid's hand slide under his arm and around his back.

"Come, then," she says softly, her voice very, very close. She smells like freshly baked bread and a meadow of flowers in early spring. "Let's get you to somewhere more comfortable than this."

It takes a bit of awkward shuffling around, but eventually Fíli is on his legs, held upright by Sigrid's firm, warm body beside his. Even in his current state it does not escape his notice that they have never been this close and it takes all of his remaining willpower not to lean into her even further, to not let an act of friendly companionship turn into something more.

Sigrid guides him out into the hallway and they travel through the long corridors in silence, which Fíli is grateful for. The majority of Erebor's current residents appear to have joined in the celebrations, the fact that he himself has already left not dampening their festive spirit and the city is blissfully deserted for his and Sigrid's painfully slow journey.

When they have finally made it to the floor which houses his private rooms, Fíli stops.

"I think I can manage from here."

Sigrid looks a little doubtful, but gently removes her arm from where it is still looped around his back and takes half a step back. Fíli instantly mourns the loss of her warmth against his exhausted body.

"If you are certain..."

"I am." Fíli manages to stop himself from nodding this time and merely offers her a small smile. "Thank you," he says. "I—I know I'm a bit of a mess. I'm sorry you had to see this – again."

She reaches out to put a consoling hand against his arm. He looks down at it, her fingers white and delicate against the coarse fabric of his tunic. "We all have our low moments."

Fíli has difficulty imagining her losing control like this, but does not argue and merely swallows against a small lump in his throat. It is most definitely time for this day to end.

"Goodnight, then," he says and makes to turn away from her even though both his heart and his body are trying to pull him in the other direction.

"I would have gotten you something." Sigrid's voice stops him in his tracks and he lifts his gaze to find her looking at him with that intense expression of hers he has seen a couple of times now. First on that balcony and then again when they were alone in the library. "If I had known it was your birthday, I would have gotten you a gift," she says again when he stares at her mutely.

Fíli is not quite sure what to say to that. "You—you are under no obligation to give me anything," he stammers.

"Yes, but still..." Sigrid lowers her gaze for a moment and takes a deep breath. Then she steps towards him, closing the distance between their bodies once more. "Happy Birthday," she whispers as she leans forward and presses her lips against his cheek.

For a second or two, Fíli is completely frozen in shock. After that brief, sweet kiss, Sigrid's lips leave his skin, but she does not pull away immediately and Fíli can feel her breath against his cheek, so close to the corner of his mouth. He probably has all that wine and all that ale coursing through his bloodstream to blame for what happens next, but before she can step back, he turns his head by a fraction and his lips brush against hers.

It's... it's not really a _kiss_, but at that moment it is more than enough to stop Fíli's world from spinning and he feels something erupt in his chest, flooding him to his fingertips not merely with warmth, but with heat, a searing, all consuming heat which eclipses everything else. And then, just before he comes to his senses and pulls away again, he feels her lips move against his, hesitantly welcoming him.

He jerks his head back and they just stare at each other, Sigrid with pink cheeks and bright eyes, he breathing more than a little raggedly.

"I—I—" Fíli stammers as Sigrid steps back once more, her eyes not leaving his. "I—T—Thank you."

_Thank you? Who says that to someone in a moment like this?_ He mentally slaps himself on the back of his head.

Despite her own abashment, Sigrid somehow manages a grin that is almost smug. "You're welcome."

Alright, that's it. He's going to bed, right now.

"Goodnight?" he tries again.

"Goodnight," Sigrid returns, that adorable flush still not having left her face.

Fíli forces himself to fully turn around this time and makes his way down the corridor, not daring to look around. He knows that if he saw her still standing there, looking after him, all would be lost and so he allows himself to be swallowed up by the shadows, all but fleeing to his room. Once inside, he leans against the door, breathing heavily. Despite himself and despite his general state of exhaustion, he feels a broad grin spread across his face.

And suddenly he finds himself hoping that he won't forget all about today after all.


	13. Day 62

**Day 62**

When Fíli wakes on the sixty-second day, he discovers that his memories of the day before are surprisingly intact. They have, however, lost some of their happy, fuzzy glow in the harsh light of day, which is why he finds himself standing in front of his mirror at the crack of dawn, glaring at his reflection with reproach.

How could he ever have allowed for things to progress this far? Not only has he effectively invalidated his own claims about wanting to build a friendship with Sigrid, but he has done so in the full knowledge that the pressure to tie himself to one of the seven Dwarven families in marriage is growing daily.

All he has achieved now is that he has made things even harder for himself and, worse, for Sigrid. Because if there is one thing he knows for certain after last night, it is that what Sigrid feels for him is most definitely something other than friendship. Her words and actions during their earlier encounters might still have allowed for a different interpretation, but after last night Fíli cannot deny that the tender feelings he harbors for Bard's daughter are, at least to some unknown extent, reciprocated by her.

Which makes what he will have to do eventually so much harder.

His fist twitches, but he resists the violent impulse to smash it into the mirror before him and leans his forehead against the cool glass instead. His head is a pounding mess today, which does not make sorting through his jumbled thoughts and feelings any easier. What he can say with absolute clarity is that he cannot let something like last night happen again, no matter how much he might want it, no matter how vividly the feeling of Sigrid's lips against his is imprinted into his skin, his soul.

And seeing that his capacity for self-control is a rather fickle thing these days, he can see only one way for him to make sure that he adheres to his principles – he needs to make a formal promise to another, needs to accept one of the proposals pushed onto him by the heads of the clans. And he needs to do it soon, before the damage done will be too great to control. The thought of hurting Sigrid by pledging himself to another is utterly gut-wrenching, but doing it now will still be better than at a later point in time, before what is already becoming much to real can grow into something even more.

She will move on, he tells himself, and he... Well, he will do his duty. His whole life is shaped by the wants and needs of others nowadays, so why not give up the sovereignty over his heart's desires along with everything else? He'll learn to accept it, surely, maybe even learn to cherish the woman put at his side by circumstances beyond his control.

He straightens up to look at himself in the mirror once more, nodding at his reflection with grim determination. For a moment he imagines Kíli standing behind him, looking over his shoulder. Their eyes meet in the looking glass and Kíli's shine with disapproval. This will not do, his look seems to say. Denying your heart what it wants the most.

Fíli blinks and the image of Kíli is gone, leaving only emptiness behind.

"What I want the most," he grumbles, "is for you to be here, you prick."

But even as he speaks the words, he knows that Kíli – or his mind's impression of him – is right. Walking away from what has begun to blossom between him and Sigrid will be much harder than he has just mapped it out in his mind. What can he do, though? He needs to see it through, for her sake even more than for his own.

There is a knock on his door and Fíli turns to watch Balin enter, his usual stack of papers tucked under his arm in an uncommonly careless manner. In his hands, Balin is carrying two mugs, one of which he puts down on Fíli's side of the low table by the window, before sinking into his usual seat with a low groan, nursing his own mug between his palms.

Fíli saunters over to peer at the drink, grimacing when he recognizes it as Óin's patented hangover remedy, dreaded by all who have ever found themselves forced to turn to it for help. Wordlessly, he takes his seat opposite Balin and picks up his mug, toasting to the older Dwarf before downing the concoction in one, large gulp. He shudders. Balin gives a small whimper before following suit, leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed while he waits for the mixture to take effect.

Faced with this miserable heap of a Dwarf, Fíli feels almost fresh and energetic. He smirks.

"Old age making it difficult to keep up with the younger folk?"

Balin cracks open one eye to glare at Fíli. "Careful now, laddie. I'm not the one who had to head off to bed before nightfall."

Ah, if only he had gone straight to bed, Fíli muses and barely manages not to cringe. He sets his mug back down on the table instead and glances at the papers Balin brought in, looking for any sort of distraction to keep his mind from replaying last night's events. Again. "Anything of particular interest this morning?"

Balin gives a small shake of his head and winces, raising his hand to his temple as if to keep his head from moving again. "Just the usual, I'm afraid." He sits up a little straighter. "Oh, there is one thing here that demands attention." He rifles through the papers and produces a letter. "A raven brought this just this morning. "

Fíli scans the letter and raises his eyebrows in surprise. "The Blacklocks are sending envoys? I never knew them to travel this far west."

Hailing from the Sea of Rhûn, the Blacklocks generally exist in seclusion from the clans of the West and Fíli has no memory of ever having met a representative of that house in person.

"They haven't for a long time," Balin confirms, "but with Erebor returned to the Dwarves they, too, seek to establish alliances beyond their usual terrain. Dáin tells me that a few families have begun cultivating a relationship with the Dwarves of the Iron Hills in recent years. From what I could gather from their correspondence, these are also the families currently on their way here."

Fíli finishes reading the letter. "'Hoping for a fruitful relationship between our houses'," he quotes. He lowers the parchment into his lap and looks at Balin in exasperation. "How many wives exactly am I expected to take?"

Balin chuckles while he massages his right temple with his fingertips. "Just one," he says. "We'll deal with the disappointment of the rejected parties once you have made your decision."

"A Blacklock...," Fíli mutters. "I confess not to know the first thing about them."

"Neither do I." Balin shrugs. "Forging a relationship with them might however be rather advantageous in the long run. It would certainly signal that the Dwarven clans are unified by the same cause."

"And what would that be?"

"Peace, of course," Balin returns.

"Right," Fíli says, feeling a bit stupid for asking. He looks at the letter in his hands again, its seal depicting a rather ferocious looking black bear. "It does not say here when to expect them."

"Soon, I should wager." Balin stands and looks out of the window, his hands clasped behind his back. "Their letter was sent from the Iron Hills, so they cannot be that far away from here by now."

"Fantastic," Fíli says, unable to keep a hint of sarcasm from seeping into his voice. His headache, which had already begun to recede, returns with a pounding intensity. If there is one thing he does not need right now it is another party fighting for his attention, another heart to tread carefully about when his own is such a mangled mess.

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

The Blacklock delegates end up arriving on that very same day, just before sunset. The red hue of the sky when the party consisting of twenty-some individuals is escorted through the main gate lends the whole scene a rather dramatic touch, which Fíli can almost appreciate. Or could, if his head was not still torturing him.

The new arrivals look around the halls of his forefathers with wide eyes and Fíli takes a moment to assess their appearance. They all have dark manes and dark beards in abundance, small black eyes glinting somewhere underneath all that hair. Their clothes are mostly black with the occasional item in blood red, deep purple or an inky blue. The swords they carry are longer and more curved than Fíli is used to, the metal gleaming red in the light of the setting sun.

Altogether that group of strangers is oddly fascinating in their otherness and Fíli finds himself observing them with growing curiosity. And then... well, then his eyes fall onto _her_.

Her hair is as black as that of her kinsmen, but by no means wild or unkempt. A mass of silky curls erupts from her head, some but not nearly all of them piled into a complex bun at the back of her head. The light reflects off of something in her dark hair, causing it to glitter like a starry night's sky. Her beard, as shiny and smooth as her locks, is braided into several delicate braids beneath her chin, framing her very pleasant, tanned face.

As she draws closer, Fíli finds his straying eyes caught by her sharp gaze, and she does not look away once while she advances, her stare confident and challenging in just the right amount. The color of her eyes is a deep blue unlike any shade Fíli has ever seen on another person and he cannot look away, losing himself in their seemingly bottomless depths.

"If he doesn't want 'er, I'll gladly offer her my humble quarters."

The spell Fíli was under is broken by Bofur's crude remark and Fíli turns to glare at him over his shoulder. Bofur is not intimidated in the least and responds with a grin and a wink that has Fíli narrow his eyes even further.

He turns back around and sees that the Blacklock party has stopped a short distance away, three figures – the owner of the indigo eyes being one of them – stepping forward to address him.

"I am Arnórr, son of Ári," the older of the two male Dwarves greets him. "This is my son Áfli and my daughter Ásta."

They all bow and Fíli sees that the little glimmers of starlight he noticed in Ásta's hair are created by several diamond hairpins, the largest of which contains a blue stone cut into the shape of a rosebud and framed by delicate silver leaves. A stunning piece, he thinks, for once not above his people's appreciation for such trifles.

When Ásta rises once more, she notices his eyes dwell on her and responds with a smile that is neither coy not bashful, but open and genuine instead. It's a nice smile. Maybe getting to know her and her kin won't be quite as dreary a task as he feared after all.

Fíli goes through the motions of welcoming their guests and assuring them that they shall find every comfort deemed necessary in this kingdom of his with practiced ease. All the while, though, his eyes keep returning to Arnórr's daughter, the sight of her rather pleasing to his weary eyes. There is, however, something more than just beauty to her. She possesses an inherent grace and a sort of charm that lights up the room, its unaffectedness rather refreshing after so many weeks of dreary political maneuvering and strategic plotting. Fíli has to admit, he's a little intrigued by this stranger.

Intrigued enough to ignore that poor little heart of yours? Kíli's voice taunts him in his mind.

He shushes it. Only time can tell such things.

_...to be continued..._

_A/N: I'm taking some liberties with the few facts known about the Dwarven clans here for the purpose of advancing my plot and hope that those who are more knowledgeable in such things than I am will not mind too much._


	14. Day 69

_A/N: So sorry about the delay. Half the family's been down with the flu which meant no writing/editing time for me._

**Day 69**

It's been sixty-nine days. Tomorrow, Fíli will officially be crowned as King under the Mountain, the most powerful of all Dwarflords in Middle Earth. He tries not to think about that fact too much, for fear that if he did, he might saddle his pony and gallop off to some remote place in the mountains to hide from the sheer madness of it all.

Distraction. Distraction is key, he finds, with his mind's tendency to spiral down into the wildest, most terrible imaginings if he is left to his own devices for too long. Which is why he has decided that there is nothing to be done today that will help him prepare for the following day and has agreed to an outing with Ásta instead.

A passionate equestrian, Ásta has greatly enjoyed exploring the area surrounding the mountain on horseback since her arrival at Erebor one week ago and has invited Fíli to join him more than once. So far, he has been reluctant to do so, preferring to keep their meetings to a more public frame. Why, he is not entirely sure.

Ásta entices him, he cannot deny that fact. She is vibrant and passionate, her wit and tongue sharp without ever being offensive to good taste. In his conversations with her, he has always discovered a common ground, an alikeness of thinking that has made it easy to navigate even the more sensitive topics. And when he listened to her sing on her third night at Erebor, her full, throaty voice filling the Great Hall with sad, heartbreakingly beautiful notes... well, he felt something stir inside him then. Something real.

Still, he has kept a respectful distance, despite clear signals from Ásta's side that she would not mind at all spending some time alone with him.

You're afraid to get closer to her, aren't you? Kíli's voice is relentless in his mind, but he listens to it anyway, because in his heart he knows that it's got a point. You're afraid you might discover that this tentative spark is just that – a spark that will fizz out once your curiosity is satisfied. And then, where would that leave you?

Yes, where would that leave him indeed? Back to where he was before, would be the truthful answer. Back to longing for what he can never have.

Which presents him with a bit of a conundrum. Spending time with Ásta might prove an effective way of distracting his silly heart from its obsession with a certain bowman's daughter. At the same time, doing so holds the risk of confirming that what is between him and the Blacklock princess can in no way compare to stolen moments on balconies and in libraries, or that single, forbidden kiss outside his room.

Well, if that is really the case, he would rather find out sooner than later, which is precisely why he agreed to this excursion on the spur of the moment, surprising not only himself but also Ásta, who had clearly already resigned herself to another polite declination when she invited him to come along.

On his way to the stables, Fíli is jerked from the wanderings of his mind when he finds himself flanked by Thad and Flad, looking as cheerful as ever.

"And how are you on this fine day, Your Highness?"

Fíli smirks. Despite what the formal address might suggest, his relationship to the two brothers is not exactly that of a sovereign to his servants. They've become friends over the past few weeks and the brothers are very well aware of that fact. But if they want to play that game then fine, he'll indulge them for a bit.

"Very well indeed," he replies stiffly, keeping his eyes fixed on the path ahead. "Thank you for your concern."

Thad and Flad exchange a look and even out of the corner of his eye, Fíli can see the mischievous twinkle in their gaze.

"Would Your Majesty like for us to perform any special services today?" Flad asks.

"We are at your complete disposal," Thad adds with a small bow.

Ah, now Fíli knows where this is going. He laughs. "Sorry, none of your little carouses for me today," he informs them. "I'm to meet with Ásta now and go over the schedule for tomorrow with Balin later. I might be in need of a bit of a nightcap after dinner, though."

He expected at least a little bit of enthusiasm at this suggestion and is confused when the two brothers exchange an odd look, their usually so jovial faces rather grim.

"What? What's the matter?" Durin help him, if fate has decided to spring some bad news on him today of all days he really might take that pony and go hide in the mountains.

"It's just...," Thad begins, but then trails off, looking to his brother for assistance.

Flad sighs at having to be the one to take charge, but clears his throat in preparation for what he has to say. "Are you certain that it is wise to go roving about with that Blacklock?" he asks Fíli, his tone cautious.

Fíli is completely taken aback by this question. "Why on earth wouldn't it be?"

Flad hesitates, shifting a bit uncomfortably under Fíli's confused stare. "It's... well ... Her family has a bit of a reputation."

Thad, always the more direct one, huffs. "Reputation might be putting it a bit mildly. Infamy, I'd rather call it. Lots of people turning up dead wherever they go."

"People die all the time," Fíli returns, his friend's words not really serving as a good explanation for him why he should suddenly be wary of Ásta.

"Aye, they do, don't they," Thad says, completely serious for a change. "But with them its usually the spouses who wind up dead and from rather suspicious causes, too."

"They have had one daughter and one son in every branch of their family tree for generations – which is unusual enough in itself," Flad explains. "And once that spawn is out of the cradle, their mothers or fathers who have married into the family have a tendency to fall ill, disappear, or be murdered by mysterious assassins."

Fíli takes a moment to process this. He has a hard time imagining that there might be any truth to those accusations, but their seriousness warrants closer examination. "And how do you propose to know those things?" he asks the two brothers.

Thad and Flad exchange another look and say nothing, which prompts Fíli to raise his eyebrows in what he hopes is a disapproving manner. "I have neither time nor taste for gossip," he tells the two young Dwarves in his sternest voice.

"Just because there is plenty of gossip on the matter does not mean that there cannot be any truth behind it!" Thad exclaims hurriedly.

Fíli gives an impatient huff and tries to step around the brothers, but they are faster and block his path. He glares at them, but unless he is willing to use physical violence, he has no choice but to listen to them.

"We've met Ásta and her clan before, in the Iron Hills," Flad says in a conspirative voice. "They're cold and cunning and just being in the same room with them gives me goosebumps. That princess of theirs especially."

As Fíli continues to frown at the two Dwarves before him, he notices a movement behind them and feels his heart sink. Ásta has just rounded a corner behind them and is looking at all three of them with a stony expression.

Fíli returns his gaze to the brothers, his jaw set. "I have no reason to doubt the integrity of either Ásta or her family," he says and pushes past them.

Thad and Flad turn to look after him and at least have the decency to blush and avert their eyes when they notice Ásta standing a few feet behind them.

"Come on," Fíli hears Flad mutter to Thad as he grabs him by the elbow and the two of them disappear back the way they came from, neither daring to look back. Fíli watches them go before turning back to Ásta with a small sigh. She is studying him intently and Fíli has to fight very, very hard to hold her gaze. Damn those two young troublemakers.

"It pains me to think that you had to listen to this," he says, slowly advancing on Ásta until he stands right before her, looking into her deep, dark eyes. "Please believe me that nothing I said or did provoked any of those comments and that I do not believe in nor agree with anything that was just said."

Ásta says nothing, but continues to gaze at him and Fíli feels as if he is being turned inside out under her stare. He tries his best to keep his expression open, hoping that she will find whatever she is looking for in his eyes. That appears to be the case, for after a few moments she gives a small nod.

"I believe you," she says, and Fíli feels a breath rush out of him he wasn't even aware he was holding. "I've heard much worse things being said about both myself and my family, so don't fret," she assures him with a faint smile, but Fíli thinks he can still see a certain hardness around her eyes and mouth. She's more hurt than she is letting on, he thinks.

"I'll make sure to have a word with those two," he assures her. "Such behavior cannot be tolerated."

Ásta's smile widens by a fraction and she loops her arm through his, pulling him a long in the direction of the stables. "Don't waste your time worrying about them," she says. "They're just still vexed because I turned down their advances when we met before, in the Iron Hills. Injured pride can cause people to come up with all kinds of fantastic tales."

Fíli raises his eyebrows in surprise. Neither Thad nor Flad strike him as particularly vain, but they certainly do have a tendency to chase after every bit of skirt in the immediate vicinity. Be that as it may, he will still need to talk to them both about throwing around such accusations. Ásta might be his only chance at an acceptable outcome of this whole marriage debacle and he cannot let that be ruined by thoughtless words or misplaced protectiveness.

For now, though, he resolves to grant his undivided attention to the Dwarven woman beside him, so that he can come up with his own, long-overdue estimation of her character.

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

Fíli sheds his coat the minute he walks through the heavy double doors leading into his private rooms, carelessly dropping the garment onto the floor. He proceeds to a small, marble serving table at the far end of the room and pours himself a drink from a jug placed there for his convenience. After knocking back the first goblet, he pours a second one, sipping this one more slowly while he reflects on the last couple of hours.

After the rocky start, his little excursion with Ásta went rather smoothly, their conversation flowing effortlessly between them and the mild weather and open lands a welcome change to his usual surroundings inside the mountain. As to his goal of determining his companion's character and their chances at a future together that is more than just the result of an arranged marriage, he did not make much progress, however.

Ásta is outgoing and he has no reason to suspect that she is anything but open with him, but still he cannot shake the feeling that there are certain aspects of her person she is not showing him - yet. He cannot hold that against her, though. It is her personal happiness as well that is at stake and she has every right to be a little cautious about revealing too much, too soon. Mahal knows Fíli himself has yet to allow her a glimpse of some of the things that are in his heart or the darkness that sometimes threatens to swallow him in those moments when he misses Kíli the most.

Still, he would describe his hours spent with the young Dwarf woman as pleasant and a definitive step towards becoming friends. The thing that is weighing on his spirits right now is what happened upon their return to the mountain.

After taking their ponies to the stables and seeing to that they were fed and made comfortable, they walked back through the main gate, Ásta once again looping her arm through his in a companionable, lighthearted manner as she chatted to him about tomorrow's feast. And there, at the far end of the entrance hall and deeply engaged in a conversation with Óin, was Sigrid, clearly just about to return to Dale after one of her visits with the Dwarven healer.

Despite the large dimensions of the hall, her head lifted immediately when Fíli and Ásta entered. Her eyes found Fíli's and for once he found himself unable to delight in the way they lit up when they were together. He stiffened, wanting desperately to remove his arm from Ásta's hold but knowing that this would look even worse. He watched helplessly as Sigrid's eyebrows rose slightly in confusion when her eyes shifted to the Dwarf woman at his side and never had he hated himself more than when he witnessed something in her usually so bright gaze dull, resignation hardening her lovely features.

She had been bound to find out some day and it was only right that she should know that whatever had been between them could be allowed to go no further, but still Fíli would have wished it had not happened like this, not at all. Before he had a chance to react in any way, Ásta spoke.

"It surprises me that your healer has nothing better to do with his time than to spend it with this girl. But then I suppose he _is_ rather old."

Fíli tore his eyes away from the painful picture before him and found Ásta studying him intently. He tried his best to rein in the despair that must at least to some degree have been showing on his face.

"Óin's services have been and continue to be of immeasurable value," he said, keeping his tone carefully neutral which was no easy feat, given the sudden tightness in his chest. "As for Bard's daughter... if the recent past has taught me anything then it is that any connection between our people and those around us should be fostered instead of frowned upon. Óin assures me that she is as bright a student as he could wish for, even if she is no Dwarf."

Ásta looked contrite, her lovely eyes deep, dark pools as she gazed up at him. "I apologize if I spoke out of turn."

"It's fine," Fíli said, turning away from her to look for Sigrid once more. If only there was a way for him to make this easier for both of them... if only there was a way for him to explain.

To his dismay he saw that Sigrid had bid Óin farewell in the meantime and was on her way to the gate, keeping to the other side of the hall, her eyes fixed upon the ground in front of her. He tried to catch her gaze, needing to assure himself that she was alright, but she did not look up as she hurried past to disappear among the throng of people traveling to Dale.

He definitely deserved the agony in his heart as he watched her go, but that did not make it any less hard to bear and, worse, keep a straight face while doing so. Which was why he made his excuses to Ásta soon after and fled to the privacy of his quarters, that drink of mead he is currently sipping the only thing keeping him from falling apart after what has just transpired.

"Thirsty?" A voice breaks the complete silence which his quarters provide and, startled, Fíli spins around, splashing some of the amber liquid in his glass on his tunic.

Dwalin is sitting in Balin's usual seat by the window, looking perfectly at home. He arches an eyebrow.

"That Blacklock princess certainly seems to keep you on your toes. I take it things are going well in that matter?"

Fíli empties his goblet and turns his back to Dwalin to fill it once more. "I would rather not talk about that right now if that's alright."

"Then we won't," Dwalin agrees, but Fíli can practically hear the concerned frown in his voice. A change of topic is in order.

"I was expecting Balin – did something happen to deter him?"

"He'll be along shortly," Dwalin says. "I just wanted to drop in and see how you were doing."

Fíli turns around once more and finds the Dwarven warrior studying him with an intent expression. "Came to see if I'm preparing my escape?" He is joking of course and Dwalin knows that, too, but they are both aware that his statement is at least a little bit founded in reality.

Dwalin chuckles. "I know you wouldn't run out on us. You're too loyal." That last bit is said with an earnestness that touches upon Fíli's heart and be finds himself compelled to avert his gaze.

"Not too long ago I put my own desires above the greater good when I stayed behind at Lake-town." He is not sure why he feels the need to talk down Dwalin's praise of his character. Maybe it's because of the doubts he knows himself to still harbor about his fitness to rule. Or maybe it's the knowledge that if his heart would get what it wants he would betray everything he stands for, everything they all fought for.

Dwalin leans forward in his seat, his face serious with concern. "You didn't do that for yourself though, did you? You did it for your brother. And who is to say how things might have turned out if you hadn't. Who is to say that it wasn't the right choice at the time."

With a small sigh, Fíli reaches for a second goblet and pours Dwalin a drink, handing it to the older Dwarf on his way to the window. He looks past the silhouette of the City of Dale at the dark, oblong shape in the distance. Lake Esgaroth.

"It didn't matter in the end, though," he says softly. "I lost Kíli anyway."

"It _did_ matter," Dwalin says, coming to join him at the window. "You fought for your brother just as you are now fighting for all of us."

Fíli contemplates this for a moment. "It's hard," he finally admits. "It's just so bloody hard." He's thinking of all the opposition he is still facing, of the difficulties he needs to navigate. He's thinking of the things he has to give up in order to fulfill his duty.

"And it's going to get harder still," Dwalin concedes. "But you've done remarkably well and will continue to do so. And I'm very, very proud of you. Thorin would be, too."

There's a lump in Fíli's throat and he flushes it down with another sip from his goblet. "Is everything in order for tomorrow then?" He needs to move on from this conversation – his poor heart can only endure so much in one day.

"Aye," Dwalin says solemnly. "It's mostly formality, obviously. Still – cannot hurt for things to go smoothly for once."

Fíli nods in agreement. It is true that he has been acting as king for a while now, even if the crown has not been officially his yet. They could have done this earlier, but somehow there was always another reason to wait and eventually they agreed on the seventieth day after the battle, trusting that invoking the seven dwarf kingdoms by choosing this particular date would appeal to their people.

Emptying his goblet he puts it aside for now. He needs to slow down a little bit – he suspects that his brethren will expect him to join them for a little gathering after dinner and he should not be drunk before that already. He turns his head to find Dwalin studying him once more, leaning with his shoulder against the window pane, his arms crossed in front of his chest.

"I'm ready," Fíli says, hoping to settle any doubts the older Dwarf might still hold. "Or at least as ready as I'll ever be."

Dwalin searches his eyes and appears to find whatever it is he is looking for. "Good. I'll leave you to it then. Go easy on that mead."

"I will," Fíli says with a lopsided grin. Dwalin knows him too well. Before the older Dwarf can cross the treshold into the hallway, Fíli calls out to him once more. "Thank you. For being so patient with me."

Dwalin inclines his head, accepting his thanks. "It's easier being patient when you know it to be worth the wait. I never doubted you."

"That makes one of us, at least," Fíli mutters, but Dwalin does not hear him, having already pulled the door shut behind him.

With a small sigh, Fíli surveys his room, looking for something other to distract himself with until Balin arrives other than that jug of mead. His eyes fall onto a small object resting on the chair Dwalin previously occupied. Thinking that his companion must have forgotten something of his, Fíli advances and gasps softly when he realizes what it is that he is looking at. Kíli's rune stone, recently polished. A small hole has been drilled into the stone through which a leather string has been threaded so that it can be worn around the neck, like a piece of jewelry.

Fíli' fingers tremble as he picks up his brother's talisman. He runs his thumb across the engravings on it once before fastening the string around his neck and tucking the stone under his shirt so that it rests right above his heart.

_You'll be with me Kíli. Always._

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

Fíli's suspicions prove correct and after dinner he finds himself cornered by Bofur, Nori and Ori who refuse to let him leave the dining hall before he has sat down with the lot of them and had a few drinks.

"It will be like old times!" Bofur coaxes him and Fíli bites back the remark that things are most definitely not like old times. No one has forgotten those who are not with them and tonight is not the night to argue about such things.

And so Fili joins a long table around which everyone still left of Thorin's company is grouped, bottles of mead and tankards of ale already being merrily passed around. They all cheer when he sits down among them, deliberately not choosing to take the seat at the head of the table. Tonight, he is just one of them. Tomorrow, everything will change.

Dwalin occupies the seat opposite and they exchange a look, a slight incline of the head the only way in which they both acknowledge their earlier conversation. Fíli lifts his hand to touch the stone around his neck through the layers of clothing on top of it before raising his cup. Dwalin mirrors his action and they both drink, the strong wine burning its way down Fíli's throat.

_To Kíli_.

They are halfway through Bofur's retelling of how he once nicked an entire casket of ale during a feast back in the Blue Mountains when Fíli becomes aware of a presence behind him. He shifts in his seat and finds Thad and Flad behind him.

The identical looks of contrition on their faces are almost comical. All that would be missing to complete the picture of two misbehaved boys called before their elders for confession would be if they began shuffling their feet nervously. Still, Fíli manages to keep a straight, even stern face.

"We have come to seek your forgiveness," Flad says after a beseeching glance from his brother. "Clearly we have transgressed a boundary this morning and should not have assumed that we have any right to question our king's judgment."

Despite himself, Fíli feels the corner of his mouth twitch at the sight of those two utterly miserable young Dwarves. "You have every right to question my judgment," he tells them, "and I would ask you to never stop doing so. But—" he adopts a more serious tone, "—you ought to be more careful with the things you say. People might get hurt as the result of your actions."

"Yes," the two brothers say, their heads hanging low.

Alright, Fíli has had enough of playing the stern schoolmaster now. "Come, then. Sit and have a drink with me."

His invitation does not miss its intended effect and the eyes of Flad and Thad light up, their unhappiness from a few moments ago almost forgotten. Fíli scoots a little further down on the bench he is sitting on to make room for his friends and they join him eagerly.

Out of seemingly nowhere Thad produces a tall, elegantly shaped bottle. "I received this as a gift myself and would be honored to share it with you," he says, proceeding to uncork the bottle.

A pair of boots appears in Fíli's vision and he cranes his neck to look up at Bofur prancing around on the table.

"Well, well, what do we have here?" the jocular Dwarf asks and plucks the bottle from Thad's fingers to sniff its contents. His eyes gleam excitedly. "An excellent drop, I should say. And there's plenty for all of us."

He squeezes in next to a disgruntled Dwalin and proceeds to line up five silver cups in front of him into which he splashes a generous amount of the dark red liquid. He pushes the cups towards Fíli, Thad, Flad and Dwalin respectively.

"To good health," Bofur announces and lifts his cup.

"To our young king," Dwalin corrects him, his own cup raised alongside with those of the others. Bofur shrugs.

Then, several things happen at once. Fíli, smirking at Dwalin over the edge of his cup, is distracted for a split second by some sort of ruckus amongst the Dwarves at one of the tables behind Dwalin and lowers his drink by a fraction. Meanwhile Bofur, impatient to taste Thad's gift to them, knocks back his cup without waiting for the rest of them. The cup slips from his fingers and clatters onto the floor while Bofur clutches his throat and makes a horrible, retching sound, his eyes wide.

Before Fíli can comprehend any of this, Dwalin leaps across the table and knocks the cup that almost but not quite touches Fíli's lower lip from his hands, spilling its contents everywhere. Next to him, Thad and Flad jump up in their seats, knocking over their own beverages.

"It's poisoned!" Dwalin yells.

And then all hell breaks loose.

Amidst all the shouting and a fair bit of shoving that has erupted all over the dining hall, it takes Fíli's mind a moment to register what is happening and when it finally does, he finds himself already on the way to the heavy double doors, escorted by a very worried Balin and a group of Dwarves who have been assigned as his personal guard. He turns to look over his shoulder and sees the remainder of his brethren grouped around Bofur who is now on the floor, still thrashing about. He stops, the guards who were walking behind him bumping into his back.

"I have to make sure that Bofur is alright."

Balin's hand is on his elbow and he gives it a gentle but firm tug. "Not now, laddie. We need to get you out of here and somewhere safe." His voice is calm and collected, but Fíli can see the urgency in the older Dwarf's eyes.

"But I—"

"Óin is here. He will know what to do. We have to assess the situation, but to do so, I need you somewhere where no one can get to you." Balin sounds resolute and when Fíli attempts to struggle against his hold, he exchanges a quick look with Glorin, the head of his guard, and to his great dismay Fíli finds himself grabbed under the armpit and all but dragged out of the dining hall by the bulky redhead.

"Come then, Your Majesty," Glorin grunts and earns himself a glare from said majesty.

Still, Fíli ceases his struggling and allows himself to be escorted away from the more public areas of the mountain and to his private quarters where he is then locked up with nothing and no one to distract his troubled mind.

So much for things going smoothly for once.


	15. Day 70

**Day 70**

Despite the disastrous events of the night before, they do put a crown on his head on the seventieth day. It's a good thing that Balin has had him rehearse the offical parts of the coronation ceremony a few times, for Fíli is not quite sure he would not have kept making mistakes otherwise. His mind keeps wandering back to the previous night and its reminder how quickly things can go from perfectly fine to utterly chaotic.

Thanks to Óin's quick thinking and his carefully cultivated stash of healing herbs, Bofur is expected to make a full recovery.

"With a bit of luck the events will dampen his enthusiasm for anything alcoholic at least for a little while," Dwalin joked when he informed Fíli about Bofur's condition just this morning. Fíli has his doubts about that, but he'd much, _much_ rather have a drunk Bofur on his hands than a dead one.

The fact that Bofur will be fine after all does however not make what has transpired any less shocking. Fíli has been aware, of course, of a certain amount of hostility towards him, but over the past few weeks things appeared to be quieting down inside the mountain and the fact that now someone would do something as bold as attempt to take his life came as an unpleasant surprise.

Because that's what this has been, right? An attempt on his life? Fíli has had more than enough time to relive the events in the dining hall and still things don't sit entirely right with him.

Last night found him pacing up and down the length of his room, impatient for news on Bofur, when he heard a commotion just outside his door. Not wanting to wait around doing nothing for any longer, he wrenched the door open and came face to face with a very red-faced Glorin as he sat on Thad's back, struggling to restrain the flailing limbs of the younger Dwarf. Flad was a few steps behind, his face ashen and two more members of the royal guard blocking his path.

When Thad noticed Fíli he instantly stopped struggling and gazed up at him with wild eyes, strands of his flaxen hair falling into his face. "I didn't know," he pleaded with Fíli. "I had no idea that the bottle was poisoned and now they're saying I tried to kill the king and I can't—I cannot—"

Fíli crouched down in front of his friend, signaling to Glorin to let go of their kinsman. Glorin looked decidedly unhappy to do so, but complied with the unspoken order.

Once Glorin had climbed off Thad's back, Fíli extended his hand and helped his friend sit up. He grasped Thad by the upper arm to stop him from shaking as violently as he did right then.

"I know that you could never try to harm me," he said earnestly, "and will say so to anyone who claims otherwise."

It took a while for his words to register with Thad, but eventually he grew calmer and allowed himself to be pulled into a standing position. Fíli kept his hand on his friend's arm.

"We do need to get to the bottom of this," he said. "Will you sit down with me and go over everything that happened?"

Thad nodded, still rather shaken. He looked to his brother and Flad was at his side in an instant, ready to accompany him into any trials that might await. Fíli suppressed a jolt of envy and led the brothers into his quarters where they were soon joined by Balin and Dwalin.

The poisoned bottle, it turned out, had been anonymously left in Thad's and Flad's quarters sometime during that day. Thad, in the hopes of Fíli accepting his and Flad's apology, had brought it down to dinner without questioning its contents.

"Whoever gifted the lad this bottle must have guessed that he would want to share it with you," Balin said to Fíli.

"Well, it's no secret that we have a drink together, from time to time," Fíli said. "And that we would do so tonight might have occurred to anyone, given the day we have ahead of us tomorrow."

"Which brings us no closer to determining the true culprit," Balin returned, pinching the bridge of his nose. It had been a very long day already.

"I say we round up anyone who has been known to speak in favor of Dáin taking the crown," Dwalin said, a dangerous glare in his eyes. "Lock them in the dungeons until after the coronation."

"We are most definitely not doing that," Fíli said indignantly. "I will not begin my reign with some of my people imprisoned just because they dared to speak up against me."

"I would not deem that very wise either," Balin commented, regarding his brother with something akin to amused cautiousness. Turning back to Fíli he added, "We should still proceed with the coronation, though. Postponing matters will only give those who seek to undermine you more time to do so."

Despite his reluctance to act as if nothing had happened when one of his kinsmen had nearly been killed mere hours ago, Fíli could not but see the reasoning behind Balin's words. Which is how he comes to be here, now, accepting the crown that was supposed to be his uncle's.

It feels heavier than it ought to, that crown of his, the muscles in his neck straining under its weight. For a brief, weak moment the lines Sigrid wrote him flash before his inner eye, but he pushes the memory and the feelings that are inevitably tied to it away. Not now, he tells himself. Keep your head up, your heart strong, and this, too, will be over before too long. And then... well. Then you will be expected fulfill your destiny.

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

It really is over before too long and Fíli finds himself at the grand celebration following in the wake of his coronation. While it is a relief to be done with the stiff formalities of the day, he still struggles to fall into a more relaxed attitude. Too many faces to remember, too many obligations to uphold, to many expectations to meet.

The events of the night before are still on his mind, looming over his head like a dark cloud that might drench him at any minute. Even though he is not particularly concerned about his own well-being he cannot help but feel on edge, his eyes darting around the halls every so often on the lookout for any suspicious activity. Thad has not left his side since the moment the official ceremony ended and insists on personally sipping every drink which Fíli is being handed. Fíli tolerates this, more for Thad's sake than his own. His young friend is even paler than usual today, his eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot. If putting himself in harms way for his king can help him overcome his guilty conscience then so be it.

Ásta, Fíli notices, appears rather tense too, staying close to him for most of the time, her dark eyes unusually timid. He cannot hold that against her – how could she feel safe after what has happened? Their guests from Rhûn have been welcomed with as much cordiality as can be expected of the Dwarves of Erebor, but if people are now beginning to poison one another, who is to say that the foreigners might not become the next targets?

The Blacklock princess certainly gives the impression of knowing how to defend herself, but still Fíli makes a silent promise to be especially vigilant for her sake. His heart may not (yet) be overly enthusiastic about their prospective union, but the very least he can do is offer her certain measures of stability and security.

With his thoughts wandering down these paths, Fíli somehow makes it through the first hour or so of the feast without any incidents worth of notice. Until he catches sight of _her_ standing at the edge of a small crowd of people from Dale. Sigrid's hair is braided for the occasion, the intricately woven strands of gleaming hair piled at the back of her head doing some very interesting things to both his heart and his imagination.

He's... _surprised _to see her here tonight. After that gut-wrenching moment in the entrance hall yesterday afternoon, Fíli would have thought that she might wish to avoid him and even though that thought is rather painful, he has managed to convince himself that it would be better this way. Clearly, she is not going to make it that easy for him, though – not that he would deserve as much.

He cannot tear his gaze away from her, even when he watches a small frown pass over her face and knows with utmost certainty that she is about to look up, look at him. Their eyes meet across the sea of people between them. Sigrid's eyes are dark and vulnerable today and for a moment it is as if Fíli can only see her, the world around them fading into nothingness.

Mahal, it has been too long since he has touched her. Much, much, much too long.

When Fíli comes to his senses once more, he finds that he has taken a few steps in her direction, the small group of people he has been conversing with – Ásta, Balin, and two more members of the Blacklock clan – staring after him in utter bewilderment for abandoning them in what might have been the middle of a sentence. He wavers on his feet for a moment, but then realizes that this will look even worse if he simply turns back around now, and so he keeps his head held high and his steps measured as he continues to advance upon their guests from Dale.

For a moment Sigrid looks like she might run, but then her spine straightens by a fraction and she thrusts her chin forward, meeting his gaze as he advances upon her and her people. Fíli feels stripped bare under her gaze, but he, too, forces himself to keep his face calm and his shoulders squared. He has no idea what he is trying to accomplish here, but it is too late to turn back now. Also, turning away from her is just about the last thing he wants to do.

He comes to a stop a couple of feet away from her, close enough to be able to speak without having to raise his voice above the considerable amount of background noise. But not an inch closer than that – this is a very public backdrop for such an encounter and given his tendency to make a fool of himself wherever she is concerned, he is determined to uphold a respectable distance.

Sigrid's eyes have yet to leave his, but they remain cautious – no teasing twinkle, no tenderness to be found in them today.

"Your Majesty," she says, finally breaking eye-contact as she lowers her head in deference.

Fíli's stomach is in knots and he wants to tell her not to call him that but stops himself just in time. This is how it will have to be, from now on. "How are you?" he asks instead, forcing his voice past the tightness in his throat.

"I am quite well, thank you," Sigrid responds politely, still not looking at him. He hates every second of it.

Silence stretches between them and Fíli feels his face grow hot while he desperately searches for a way to let her know how sorry he is about the way things went, how utterly devastated he feels for not being allowed to follow his heart. To let her know how he misses her. Before he can embarrass them both by saying the wrong thing at the wrong time, he is saved by a slight weight knocking into him from his right and, swaying a little to the left while he catches his balance, he looks down to find Tilda beaming up at him, her short arms wrapped around his midsection.

"It is so good to see you!" she all but squeals. "Congratulations on becoming king!"

A little gasp from Sigrid causes Fíli to glance at her and finds her cheeks flushed with mortification on behalf of her little sister. "Tilda, that is not exactly how you—"

"It's quite alright," Fíli assures her, not wanting to add to the load she already carries on her shoulders. To Tilda he adds, "Thank you. It is very good to see you, too. How have you been? I heard that you were sick a few weeks ago."

Tilda's smile is unwaveringly bright and she releases him from her embrace to stand beside her sister. "Oh, it was nothing really. Sigrid made me stay in bed for days and it was so _boring._" She seems to remember something then and a slight shadow passes across her doll-like face, making her lower lip quiver. "What about Bofur, though? I heard he fell terribly ill just last night."

"He did," Fíli affirms gravely. "But you need not worry for him. He is much better already."

The girl's relief is palpable. In those confusing hours during and after the dragon's attack on Lake-town when fate decided that it would be an entertaining idea to throw four Dwarves, an Elf and the three children of a bargeman together in their struggle to survive, Bofur had been the one to pay the most attention to the small girl, distracting her from the gruesomeness of what was happening with his silly antics and affectionate smiles. It is only natural, then, that she should worry for him, but still the fact that she does is a stark reminder of how friendship can be found in the most unlikely of places, how love cannot be constrained by the prejudices which continue to exist between the peoples of Middle Earth.

He glances at Sigrid again as that last part of his thoughts echoes through his mind, but she is not looking at him, smiling down at her younger sister instead. Tilda looks over her shoulder, catching her older sibling's eye.

"I know you said I should not," the girl says, "but please, Sigrid, may I?"

Sigrid looks slightly exasperated. After a moment she sighs, casting an apologetic glance at Fíli. "Fine, go ahead if you must," she says to Tilda.

Bewildered by their exchange, Fíli watches Tilda rummage around in her skirt pocket for a few seconds and then produce an oddly shaped object made of cloth. She offers it to him, pride shining in her young eyes and he automatically reaches out, wrapping his fingers around it. It's some sort of doll, he realizes, fashioned out of what might once have been a pillowcase. Two buttons, one brown and one black, serve as its eyes and it is equipped with long hair made from brown wool and – he smirks – a beard complete with braids and a few wooden beads threaded into it.

"It's for Bofur," Tilda states solemnly while Fíli turns the doll over in his hands, "to help him get better. Will you give it to him?"

Fíli feels laughter bubble up in his chest at the thought of Bofur's expression when he is presented with this gift. He smiles his first genuine smile today. "I will be honored to pass this along to him," he says, earning himself another delighted smile from the girl.

He glances up at her sister once more and finds her watching him with some of her usual warmth. That choking tension inside his stomach begins to uncoil and he feels it again, that tenderness that he only seems to be capable of when she is near. Then he remembers where they are and that this – short, impersonal exchanges in public settings – is all he can ever have from her now and the knot in his inner organs returns, tightening until he has to swallow against a bit of bile rising in his throat.

It isn't fair.

Sigrid is still regarding him carefully and opens her mouth to say something when Tilda pipes up again. "Why does that Dwarf over there keep looking at us?" she asks, peering at the group Fíli left behind when he crossed the room to join her and her sister. "He wasn't at our house when Da brought you there to hide, was he?"

Fíli does not have to turn to know whom she is speaking of and watches in utter dismay as Sigrid's expression closes off once more. He is saved from giving an answer, at least, by a deep voice cutting through the silence between them.

"That, my dear daughter, is not a Dwarf at all. It's a Dwarf woman."

Fíli carefully clears his face of all feeling before he turns to acknowledge Bard with a polite nod, which the new King of Dale returns, his inquisitive eyes lingering on Fíli's face for just a split second longer than he is comfortable with. Surely Bard cannot know...?

Tilda, meanwhile, is perfectly abuzz with excitement. "A Dwarf woman? How splendid! And she even has a beard." Turning to Fíli with her small hands clasped underneath her chin she asks, her face a picture of innocence, "Are you going to marry her?"

A cold, dead weight settles in Fíli's stomach and he has to muster all of his self-control to affect the semblance of a smile when Bard gently admonishes Tilda for her inquisitiveness.

"That is none of your business, my dear."

"But—" Tilda begins, but is cut off by her sister.

"Tilda," Sigrid hisses, "leave it be. Now."

Fíli tries to swallow the lump in his throat and almost chokes, tears stinging the corners of his eyes while he fights to keep his composure. In the presence of her father he does not dare to look at Sigrid directly, but from the corner of his eye he can see the tension rolling off her in waves, her cheeks flushed and her fists clenched.

This was a terrible idea, he realizes, for all he has accomplished is to cause them both more pain.

"I am expected by my people, I'm afraid," he says stiffly, turning to Bard once more. The bowman is frowning at his older daughter and, panicking, Fíli fumbles for words that might distract Bard before he can draw certain conclusions from Sigrid's uncharacteristic behavior. "I just wanted to speak to you in person and thank you for joining us here tonight," he rambles on and to his relief Bard's eyes leave his daughter and fix him instead.

There's something in the eyes of the King of Dale that has Fíli slightly worried for a second, but then it passes and the man inclines his head in acceptance of Fíli's words. "Thank you for including us in such a meaningful event," he says. Bard, too, has learned a thing or two about politics since his people made him their leader. "I hope our dealings with each other will be characterized by the same friendliness."

"I see no reason at all why they should not be," Fíli replies, exerting all of his willpower to not allow his gaze to flicker to Sigrid. Leave her be, he commands himself, you've caused enough damage as it is.

Seeing that there is nothing else to say and that he has already announced his departure, Fíli forces himself to turn away from the small group then, his heart sinking a little more with each step that he takes. If he were Kíli he would turn back now, find some way to show Sigrid that this is all very painful for him, that this is not at all what he wants. But he isn't his brother and now, more than ever, he cannot not allow his longing for Kíli's presence influence his actions, cannot let it make him reckless and impulsive.

And so he walks back the short distance necessary to rejoin his people, calm on the outside while inside of him a terrible storm is raging, waves of despair crashing against the barriers he is fighting so hard to uphold.

He feels Ásta's gaze linger on him during his journey across the hall and when he looks up finds her usually so animated features stone-cold, her full lips forming a hard line. Or maybe it's just the light playing a trick on his eyes, for as he draws closer, her face appears softer once more, a companionable smile stretching her lips as she hands him a goblet of wine.

"Are your guests finding everything to their satisfaction?" she asks, looking at him over the rim of her own goblet. Her voice betrays no particular feeling whatsoever and Fíli tells himself that he really did imagine that hard look on her face just then.

"Very much so," Fíli replies, hoping that his voice doesn't really sound as hollow as it does to his own ears. Ignoring the protesting yelp from Thad, he drinks deeply from his goblet, the rich flavor overpowering the bitter taste his conversation with Bard and his daughters has left behind. The effect lasts only for a moment, though, and Fíli suspects that he will be needing to drink a whole lot more if he wants to chase the image of Sigrid's eyes, the hurt reflected in them sending daggers straight into his heart, from his mind. Well, so be it, then.

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

It is much, much later that night when most of the guests – including the party from Dale – have already left, that Fíli finds himself hiding out in a small alcove behind one of the tapestries hung on the high walls of the Great Hall, Ásta pressed against his front, her whole form shaking with barely suppressed laughter.

"Shh," he whispers into her ear from behind. "Ye're going to give us away."

His tongue feels heavy in his mouth, a testament to the fact that, despite Thad's frequent interventions, he has managed to work himself into a rather inebriated state. The younger Dwarf is currently passed out with his head on one of the long tables, having overexerted himself in his self-imposed position as the king's cupbearer.

Ásta turns to face him, her long curls tickling Fíli's nose as she does so. In the small space there is no other way for the two of them to stand other than with the length of their bodies touching – unless they want to be discovered by the two ancient Dwarves who have been chewing their ears off about the long lost glory of the olden days for over an hour.

Tilting her head back to look at him, Ásta grins, the mischievous twinkle in her eyes reminding him a little of Kíli. "Don't you worry," she says. "I can be quite... _discreet_."

The stress she puts on that last word sends a little jolt through certain regions of Fíli's body which must have shown on his face somehow, for Ásta's smile widens by a fraction before her face comes so close to his that her features begin to blur and Fíli instinctively closes his eyes.

He lets her kiss him then, for how could he justify pushing her away, both to her and to himself? Her lips are soft and full against his, the breath rushing from her mouth into his when she opens them, demanding more, sweet with wine and full of promises.

Fíli brings one hand up, running his fingers through the mass of curls at the back of her neck before cupping her head, tilting it gently to one side to allow his mouth better access to hers. Ásta complies readily with his request and the sigh which escapes her lips as their kiss deepens leaves a tingling heat behind in some hidden place inside of him.

This feels... good. Pretty damn good, in fact. There is no way for Fíli to deny that, just as there is no way denying the shortness of his breath or the slight tightening of his trousers which Ásta's touch evokes.

And yet... and yet.

It appears that not even the heat of this moment, not even the glorious intimacy with this extremely attractive Dwarf woman currently pressed against him, _asking_ for more, can convince his stubborn mind to relinquish the image of sad hazel eyes or his even more stubborn heart to stop clinging to a much more innocent brush of lips like it is the only touch that ever mattered. Like it is the only touch he ever truly _felt_.

_to be continued_

_A/N: I was happy to see that my little poisoning plot in the last chapter caused some reactions. Now I'm hoping that what I did here is not going to send you guys after me with pitchforks - this is still a Fíli/Sigrid story, we're just taking a little detour. _


	16. Day 90

**Day 90**

Ninety days. Fíli cannot believe it has been three whole months since he last saw his brother. Three whole months since everything fell to pieces. He still waits for Kíli to poke his head around the corner every minute, that boyish grin of his inviting the conclusion that, once again, he has been up to some kind of mischief.

Every time he turns his head though, expecting to be met with his brother's face and finding nothing, the image of Kíli that seventy-nine years of being perpetually together has etched into his memory becomes just a fraction more vague, his visions of Kíli growing a little less tangible with each day that Fíli has to make it through without his brother at his side. And this terrifies him in ways that words cannot describe.

The three weeks since he has officially become King under the Mountain have kept him even more tied up than the weeks leading up to his coronation, therefore not allowing him much time to meditate on such matters. At night, left alone to grapple with his demons in the dark, his fear of losing this last, vital link to Kíli through his memory of his brother's antics, his particular ways of saying and doing things, the spark in his eyes, will clutch at his heart, squeezing it until he finds himself crying out his brother's name into the blackness surrounding him, begging to be heard.

Tonight, Fíli is determined to not let it come this far, even with the date marking a quarter of a year since he's lost Kíli. He will not sleep, that he can say with certainty, but that does not mean that he has to allow himself to be reduced to the crumbling mess so many nights in the last three months have found him in. The fire in his hearth he has kept burning brightly, bathing his quarters in both light and warmth while outside one of the fierce storms that have characterized this winter is raging, the howling of the wind louder up here in the mountain than in any other place he has ever stayed in.

He has just settled in his favorite chair with a glass of brandy, intending to have a look at the latest version of construction plans for the eastern part of the mountain, when a knock on the door echoes through his room, startling him.

"Come in," he calls, not bothering with formalities at this time of day. While he would not mind a bit of distraction, he fervently hopes that whoever is at the door is not the bearer of bad news. He's not sure that he has the stomach for those today.

To his utmost relief it is Dwalin who sticks his head through the door a second later.

"Am I keeping you from anything of vital importance?" he asks, stepping into the room when Fíli beckons to him.

"I almost wish I could say that you are," Fíli returns, leaning back in his chair once more. "But the sad truth is that I'm just going over the same things others, more capable than me, have been over more than once already to keep myself occupied."

"I thought that you might be," Dwalin says, "given what day it is." He settles down in the chair facing Fíli's with a sigh. "Three months. There were times when I did not think we would make it this far."

Fíli raises an eyebrow. "I thought you never doubted me," he teases, recalling their conversation before his coronation.

Dwalin's lips twitch in one of his rare smiles. "And I did not," he says. "At least not as much as I doubted everyone else. Myself included."

The older Dwarf's smile falters a little and as he gazes into the flames roaring in the fireplace, Fíli can see that it's still there, his pain over losing Thorin. Maybe it's not as sharp, not as raw as it used to be in those days following the battle, but it's still there, a constant companion that might take the form of fond memories on good days and bottomless longing on bad ones. Fíli knows it well, this companion, for it is whom he shares his every waking hour with.

"We have come rather far indeed, I should say," Fíli forces himself to say, as much to remind himself of that fact as to console his obviously troubled friend. "I think—I like to think they would be proud of us."

Dwalin tears his gaze away from the fire and looks at him, his eyes glistening in a manner that causes Fíli's throat to close up. "Aye, they would be, wouldn't they?" A blink and a slow exhaling of breath and then the vulnerability in the Dwarf's eyes is gone, his usual shields back in place. He hefts himself out of his seat to tower above Fíli. "Come then, on your feet. We're going to go do some sparring."

Puzzled by the unexpected turn in their conversation, Fíli hesitates. "Now? I'm not sure if that is such a great idea..." He glances at his right leg in dismay.

Dwalin, following his line of sight, grunts. "Nonsense. I haven't seen you use that stick of yours for weeks. If you're looking for a way to weasel your way out of fighting me, you're going to have to find a better excuse."

Fíli glares at Dwalin. "I'm not scared of fighting you."

Dwalin smirks. "Prove it, then."

Fíli's grumbling as he, too, gets up and goes through the familiar but long-neglected motions of preparing himself for a session of sparring is rather half-hearted. Dwalin is right, of course - there is no reason for him to avoid some physical activity, his healing having progressed exceedingly well in the last few weeks, a fact he has Óin and, he suspects, Sigrid's assistance to the Dwarven healer to thank for. The only real reason why he is still reluctant to resume this once beloved routine of his is the fact that Kíli is not here to do it with him. Many times during the last months he has watched Thad and Flad engage in one of their practice fights and each time it was as if a rock sat in his stomach afterward, making it hard to breathe.

If anyone were to sympathize with those feelings, it would probably be Dwalin, so there is no other partner better suited to finally overcome his reluctance and take up his arms once again. His knives slide into their various holsters with practiced ease, the feeling of their slight weight on his arms, his torso, his legs calming him and soothing any doubts he might still have held. He eyes his sword, the one he chose from Erebor's expansive armory, with weariness. Then he picks up Kíli's blade instead, twirling the sword in his hand once. It's lighter than his own, suited to Kíli's more agile style of fighting. He slides it into the sheath at his belt, deciding that in this way, at least, Kíli will be with him after all.

He turns to find Dwalin watching him. "Ready?" the older Dwarf asks.

Fíli nods. "Let's go."

An hour and a half later finds Fíli panting, a fine sheen of sweat coating his skin and causing his hair to stick to the back of his neck. He revolves slowly on the spot while Dwalin circles him, looking for a weakness, a chance to launch his attack.

"Come on, old man," Fíli taunts him, "I haven't got all night."

He regrets his choice of words immediately, for Dwalin throws himself at him with renewed vigor and Fíli's sword quivers under the force with which Dwalin brings his axe down. Realizing that he does not have the strength to keep this up for much longer, Fíli pretends to be forced to his knees by the attack and then ducks and rolls to the side, jumping up once more as soon as he is out of Dwalin's reach.

"Careful there," he pants, "I don't fancy adding 'The Headless' to my long list of silly nicknames."

"You be careful about who ye're insulting then," Dwalin growls, still looking rather murderous.

"Alright, alright." Fíli lets his blade clatter to the ground and raises both hands in defeat. "I confess myself to be utterly unable to defend myself against your superior strength and skill, Master Dwalin, and surrender." Once Dwalin has lowered his axe, he adds, "Must be those _ancient_ techniques that keep catching me off guard.

The axe is back in Dwalin's hand in the blink of an eye and Fíli yelps in a manner not very becoming of a seasoned warrior as the older Dwarf proceeds to chase him around the deserted training area, the hunt ending with Fíli sprawled on his stomach and Dwalin perched on his back, holding him in a headlock. Fíli kicks his feet, trying his best to throw Dwalin off, but it's no use.

Dwalin's barks of laughter at his young king's futile attempts to free himself and Fíli's accompanying grunts are silenced abruptly when the door at the far end of the room opens, a lone figure standing on the threshold. It's Ásta, the sparse light falling into the doorway from the outer hallway casting her mostly in shadow.

"Oh," she says sounding as if they had just run into each other at the market, "it's you. I heard noises and wondered who might be here at this late hour."

While Dwalin hefts himself off his back and extends an arm to help him up, Fíli has a second or two to think that it is quite a coincidence for Ásta to be down here in this rather remote part of the mountain when most of its other occupants have either retired to their private quarters or are enjoying themselves in one of the taverns. And indeed Ásta has developed a habit of showing up in the same places he is in, her surprise at seeing him not always entirely convincing.

Don't be unkind, Fíli chastises himself, you have certainly given her every reason to believe that you want her near. This is only the natural progression of things - it is not her fault that your own preferences would not be considered entirely... _natural _by your own kind.

"We were just finishing up here," he says politely while Dwalin busies himself collecting the weapons that got strewn across the room during their session. He has turned his back to them and Fíli has the distinct impression that he is trying to give them some privacy.

Privacy, unfortunately, is just about the last thing he currently craves where Ásta is concerned. Which is beyond foolish, really. Since that one, rather _private _moment on the night of his coronation, Fíli has found himself in a handful of similar situations with the Blacklock princess and all of those have been extremely pleasant. Or they would have been, were it not for a nagging guilt and an annoyingly persistent feeling of doing the wrong thing that overcome him whenever he and Ásta engage in more bodily expressions of their growing friendship.

In the last few days he has begun to avoid her altogether, running from her just like he is running from the realization that his heart is not tricked as easily as he had initially hoped it would be. He knew that this would be difficult, of course, knew it from the moment he first felt his heart give a little jolt at the though of a certain Bowman's daughter, but he would have thought himself capable of a larger amount of self-control.

Ásta would be a fool not to notice his sudden reticence. Fíli has no way of knowing what she makes of it, given that he barely knows her, after all. What he can say, however, is that his behavior has the opposite of its intended effect in the sense that Ásta has now become prone to seeking his closeness in more public settings, forcing him to either acknowledge his preference for her as a suitress or to risk insulting her rather gravely in front of the whole world to see.

As she is doing now, sauntering over to put a hand against his shirt clad chest, the neckline gaping open to reveal rather more of his bare skin than usual. Her fingertips trace the smooth edges of Kíli's rune stone where it rests just above his heart.

"I would have come sooner and watched if I had known you were down here," she says, and the slightly suggestive tone of her voice sends a little tingle down Fíli's spine which, more than anything else, serves to irritate him. It's as if his mind, his heart and his body are in a constant state of war, one trying to triumph over the others and, in doing so, making him act like the biggest of fools.

Once again ignoring the demands of his body, he wraps his fingers around Ásta's hand and gently stirs it away from his chest, holding it chastely for a moment before releasing her altogether. "Another time, maybe," he says, ignoring the shadow that passes over her features at his words. "Please allow Master Dwalin and myself to escort you to your chambers – you never know whom you might run into at this time of day."

Dwalin turns sharply and for a moment he looks about to protest, but at a quick, pleading glance from Fíli he finishes gathering up their weapons and crosses the room to join them, handing Fíli a number of smaller blades. "Ready when you are."

Ásta looks dissatisfied with the whole situation, but allows herself to be guided out of the training area with Fíli's hand against the small of her back. The three of them begin their trek through the maze that is the kingdom under the mountain in silence, none of them entirely comfortable.

"Should we go riding tomorrow?" Ásta asks once they have ascended to the higher levels once more and are nearing the portion of the mountain where their guests from Rhûn have their quarters.

"I cannot, I'm afraid," Fíli answers. "I have a council meeting in the morning and am expected to approve the final stages of construction work in the forges in the afternoon."

That latter part is a half-truth only – while his presence will certainly be appreciated during the inspection of the forges it is by no means mandatory with other, more specialized members of his council already having been appointed to the task. Dwalin knows this, too, of course, but Fíli is grateful that he does not even quirk an eyebrow when the lie tumbles from his lips.

Ásta looks resigned, her lips pursed. Immediately Fíli feels sorry for brushing her off like this – again – and adds, "The day after tomorrow, maybe?"

She smiles then, but it does not quite reach her eyes. Too often has he canceled their meetings at the last minute already. "Until then," she says, turning to him. For a moment Fíli thinks that she might kiss him, but then she glances at Dwalin and merely clasps his hand in hers for a moment, her fingers warm and firm against his. She steps back and bows her head in Dwalin's direction. "Master Dwalin."

And with that she turns and slowly advances down the corridor, disappearing in the shadows before too long. Fíli looks after her for a few moments, hating himself for making something that could have been a good thing so uncomfortable and complicated. But in Mahal's name, he cannot seem to help himself.

He turns to find Dwalin gazing at him, his expression unreadable. "Come on," the older Dwarf says gruffly. "Let's get you to bed."

Their journey back to Fíli's rooms is also conducted in silence, but it's much less strained than when Ásta was with them. Still, Fíli can sense that there is something troubling Dwalin. Suspecting that it has something to do with his less than honorable conduct, Fíli eventually stops and turns to face his friend. "Out with it, then," he says. "Whatever you have on your mind, I'm certain that I deserve to hear it."

Dwalin arches an eyebrow but says nothing at first and Fíli has the distinct impression that he is weighing his next words carefully. "As king," he finally begins, "you may find yourself in a position, from time to time, where your own... _desires _are at odds with what your people want and expect you to do."

Fíli frowns. How much exactly does Dwalin know about his desires? "You do not need to remind me of my obligations with regard to choosing a wife," he says aloud. "Trust me, that issue is never far from my mind."

Dwalin holds up a hand. "Won't you let me finish, lad. What I was going to say is that I know you feel cornered with all those decisions being forced onto you. And that it is alright for you to feel this way. And, well... " He stumbles a bit here, clearly not entirely comfortable with this topic, but composes himself rather quickly. "And to _want _certain things. The question is, how do you handle wanting to do one thing while being expected to do another."

Fíli merely stares at Dwalin. Unless Balin has discussed the matter with him – which seems unlikely – he cannot imagine that Dwalin knows anything about what has transpired between him and Sigrid, much less how she has haunted both his heart and his mind ever since. Still, what Dwalin just said describes the dilemma he has found himself in over the past few weeks with uncanny accuracy. "I believe I understand the protocol rather well when it comes to that," he says evasively, not daring to look at Dwalin directly, for fear of what truth his friend might read in his eyes. "I'm allowed to want, but not to have."

If Dwalin is at all curious about what it is precisely that Fíli wants, he does not let it on. "If that his how you wish to see it," he says brusquely, "be my guest."

Something in his tone makes Fíli look up. "You say that as if I had a choice."

"You do," Dwalin says simply. "We all do. The question is, what do we do with that choice? Are we brave enough to make the unpopular choice or do we let our circumstances dictate which path we walk?"

"This is not merely a matter of choice, though, but of responsibility," Fíli argues, pinching the bridge of his nose in an unconscious imitation of Balin. Somehow, this conversation is giving him a headache. It feels too much as if they are dancing around the heart of the issue, both of them playing their cards close to their chests.

Dwalin sighs, looking as tired as Fíli feels. "I know you have dedicated yourself solely to your role as king. Mahal, it was me who asked you to do so, all those weeks ago. And now I find myself fearing that you will lose yourself in it, like Thorin did for a little while, all those months ago."

"That was different," Fíli counters, thinking of the treasure horde which poisoned his uncles mind. He would gladly part with every coin, every gem under this mountain if it meant peace for his people.

"Was it, though?" Dwalin asks, his expression grave. "Thorin believed that he had our best interests at heart and was willing to pay a heavy price for his actions. Do not confuse guilt with responsibility. And do not sacrifice yourself for what you think is the greater good where maybe it is not necessary."

Fíli gapes at him. This sounds almost like Dwalin telling him not to marry Ásta unless he really wants to – which cannot be right, can it? "Balin believes this to be quite necessary indeed."

Dwalin grunts in agreement. "My brother means well – in this matter, though, I believe he judges with his mind rather than his heart."

"And you do not?" Having those more personal conversations with Dwalin is all very well, but hearing the often ill-tempered Dwarf speak of using his heart rather than his mind – or, even more likely, his _axe_ – still strikes Fíli as a bit outlandish.

"I do not want a king who is broken, bitter," Dwalin answers without missing a beat. "You may not feel that way now, but you, too, deserve happiness. Maybe even more than most of us, considering the weight you carry upon your shoulders."

Fíli takes a step back and leans against the cold wall, resting his head against the stones. He closes his eyes. "I cannot make that my priority."

"And I would not ask you to," Dwalin returns with an impatient scowl. "All I ask is that you do not sacrifice yourself just to make a point. Just because you feel guilty for still being here, with the rest of us."

Dwalin's words hit rather close to home and Fíli does not even bother denying the truth behind some of the things said. Opening his eyes again, he stares at the high, vaulted ceiling for a few moments before returning his gaze to Dwalin. "You know that Balin would kill you if he ever found out about us having this conversation."

Dwalin smirks, but Fíli does not miss the justified flicker of apprehension in his eyes. "Let me handle my brother."

Seeing that everything that ought to have been said between them – and a lot more – has been discussed, Fíli pushes away from the wall again. "You gave me much to think about."

Dwalin bows his head in one of his rare, but always entirely sincere displays of servitude. "I hope I did not add to your burdens by speaking so boldly. I do mean well."

At this, Fíli steps forward and clasps his hand on Dwalin's shoulder. "I know you do. And I hope I shall not live to see the day where you dare not speak your mind in front of me, my friend. For that would be a sad day indeed."

Dwalin holds his gaze for a moment and then inclines his head, reaching up to briefly - mind you, _very_ briefly - pat Fíli's hand before moving away to continue on their path to the royal quarters.

As Fíli follows his friend through the tunnels his footsteps are measured while his mind is in a whirl. Even though his heart has been protesting this all along, he has so far not doubted that he would have no choice but to follow his duty as laid out by Balin. What if it's not that simple, though? What if, by blindly complying with what others believe to be the right thing, he will endanger the safety of his kingdom rather than protect it? What if he _does_ have a choice?

And what would that choice be? the part of himself that has been lost in the dark since the battle sneers. Whisking away the bowman's daughter to that mountain of yours and pretend that what is between you will stand a chance against the relentless scheming of politics?

His step nearly falters at the thought of bringing Sigrid into the whole mess that is his life, but then he rights himself again, squaring his shoulders. It is too late for such wild fancies anyway – his efforts at forging the foundation for a union with Ásta may not have been successful with regard to convincing his own heart, but they did certainly manage to drive Sigrid away from him. Remembering the look of hurt and betrayal in her eyes on the night of his coronation, Fíli feels confident to say that this ship has sailed. And that's probably for the better, no matter how much it hurts him still to think of her and what could have been, in another life.

No. _If _he does indeed choose to heed Dwalin's advice, the tender spot in his heart which belongs to Bard's daughter cannot be allowed to be the deciding factor.

But then, what ought to be that deciding factor instead? The vague feeling of wrongness that overcomes him of late in his interactions with Ásta? His reluctance to become trapped in an arranged marriage? Marriages have been arranged for as long as anyone can remember, and while most Dwarven unions are based on mutual agreement and affection, the circumstances are certainly slightly different for the King of Erebor. Can he really allow himself to be so selfish as to absolve himself of the obligations his position imposes on him?

Questions above questions, none of which he will answer tonight, in the seclusion of his rooms, alone with his thoughts. Which is why, upon reaching their destination, he turns to Dwalin who is just about to leave. "Join me for a drink before bed?"

If Dwalin recognizes his reluctance to be on his own in his tone, he does not let it on and merely inclines his head dutifully. "Of course. Wouldn't mind a sip or two of that brandy you keep stowed away in there."

As Fíli holds open the door to his friend with a wry grin, he has a premonition that each of them will have more than a sip or two of the stuff before the night is over. Oh well, there's certainly worse ways to spend a sleepless night than drinking with a friend.

_... to be continued... _

_A/N: Fíli is finally coming around, it would seem. Have some patience with him, the guy has been through a lot (at my hand, hehe).__These are some crazy times for most of us – if you are currently on lockdown stay strong, stay patient, stay positive. Read some fanfiction to escape the madness of it all. _


	17. Day 95

**Day 95**

Day ninety-five finds Fíli none the wiser as to how he should let Dwalin's advice about tying himself to one of the old Dwarven families affect his actions. So far he has gotten by on vague promises, but before too long he will be forced to come to a decision regarding his future bride.

To his relief the other houses who have expressed an interest in being joined to his line in marriage appear to have accepted the fact that Ásta has become his favorite with unexpected calmness and have ceased their advances, expecting an official announcement any day now. However, that also means that Ásta herself is waiting for that day, her impatience spurned on by the amount of attention that is focused on her. Promises will only buy Fíli so much time – he will have to make a choice and he will have to make it soon.

Today, Fíli has found himself unable to fabricate a reason why he cannot meet with Ásta – the weather, which has been stormy and wet these past few days, is rather fair and with all of his council members busy with their respective tasks, he has a free afternoon ahead of himself. Rather than spend it hiding in his rooms, he has decided to do the honorable thing for once and has dispatched a messenger to let Ásta know that he will be meeting her at the stables as soon as she finds herself available.

Which is where he is headed now, even though his feet seem somewhat reluctant to take him to his destination. Loitering about the entrance hall a bit longer than necessary, politely greeting people as they pass him by, Fíli is surprised and somewhat relieved to find his path blocked by Óin. He opens his mouth to greet the old Dwarf, but falters when he catches sight of the expression on the healer's face.

"Anything I may help you with on this fine day?" Fíli asks carefully, concern settling in his stomach when he watches his friend's expression change from somewhat grumpy to downright menacing.

"Yes, you may indeed," Óin growls, his narrowed eyes glaring up at Fíli in a manner that few would dare to assume towards the king. But then again, unlike Óin, they have not known him since he was little more than a wee baby, babbling nonsense and sticking pebbles up his nose. "I'd like my apprentice back, if you so please," the old healer now grinds out from between clenched teeth. "Your majesty," he adds as if on an afterthought, but he manages to make it sound more like a threat than an act of reverence.

Fíli blinks at Óin in confusion. Since the healer does not habitually keep students, there is only one individual he can be speaking of. "You mean Bard's daughter?" He cannot bring himself to say her name, not trusting his voice not to betray him with a tremor or something equally telling.

Óin nods, once, his eyes still glinting at Fíli from narrowed slits. "Aye, the lassie."

Looking down the length of his nose at the stout Dwarf before him, Fíli tries his best to school his features into detached indifference. "Since the girl is neither mine to take nor mine to give, I am unsure how I can be of service to you in that matter."

He refuses to examine the little jolt bis heart gives at the words 'mine to take' just as he refuses to give into his impulse of inquiring into the reasons behind Óin's rather elliptic statement. Has Sigrid been absent from their sessions? She hasn't fallen ill, has she?

Óin continues to stare at him and Fíli has the unpleasant sensation of being read like an open book by the older Dwarf, as if all of his secrets are spelled out in bold letters across his forehead. "Don't waste my time with your blather," Óin hisses, his voice dripping with indignation. "I am too old for the games you young folk like to play. All I know is that one day I had myself a fine student, eager to learn and rather capable to assist me with the things that age has turned into a struggle for me, and the next day she says she won't come anymore, putting forth some wimpy excuses. I do not know what you have done to keep her away nor do I care to know, but I'd like her back."

"What makes you think that I've anything to do—" Fíli tries, but is silenced by another deadly glare from Óin, the sort of which he normally reserves for wayward patients. "Alright," he concedes, holding up his hands in defeat. "I will see what I can do."

Again, Óin narrows his eyes at him. "I'm not sure that's good enough for me."

"Well, it'll have to be, won't it? " Fíli returns, exasperation making its way into his voice. How in Durin's name is he supposed to fix _this_?

Age may have limited Óin's capacity for small talk and unnecessary decorum, but even he knows not to take things too far and he relaxes his stance somewhat, stepping backwards and out of Fíli's personal space. "Very well, then. Just be sure not to take too bloody long – I have no intention to take all my knowledge to the grave with me."

Fíli suspects that it will be a very long time still before Óin will become acquainted with said grave, but nods earnestly nevertheless. "You have my word."

After another not entirely reassuring glance, Óin departs, leaving Fíli to stare after him in helpless bewilderment. Has he really just agreed to convince Sigrid of resuming her visits to Erebor when it is obviously him whom she is seeking to avoid by staying away? Mahal, it appears that he has. Bugger it all.

Before his mind can spiral into wild conjectures about how he might endeavor to solve this task and, worse, how Sigrid might receive his attempts at persuading her to return, he becomes aware of a presence behind him. Turning on his heel, he comes face to face with Ásta who is not looking at him, but glaring after Óin instead, her dark brows brought together in a frown.

"Whatever was _that _about?" she asks. "I cannot believe he would dare speak to you like that."

Fíli suppresses a wince. How much has she heard exactly?

"It's nothing," he says quickly. Maybe a little too quickly, for the frown does not leave Ásta's face. If anything, it turns from concerned into suspicious. "Do not grant too much importance to Óin's actions," he amends. "He has put up with enough trouble from me in the last eighty-three years to allow him a certain amount of leeway when it comes to his conduct. Are we not supposed to be somewhat lenient with our elders?"

That last part at least succeeds at drawing a small smile from Ásta, although her eyes do not lose their thoughtfulness. "Well, then," she says. "I'll leave it to your authority as king to judge the actions of your subjects." It remains unsaid, but Fíli has no doubt that if she were queen, she would not tolerate such conduct.

"Come," he says, trying to submerge his feelings regarding his conversation with Oín under a pleasant smile and a companionable manner. "Let us get outside while the sun is still high in the sky."

It is a lovely day indeed and Fíli finds that the hesitant warmth of the late winter's sun on his skin does wonders for his despondent spirits. Still, as he directs his pony to follow Ásta along one of the narrow tracks at the base of the mountain, he cannot stop his head from reliving his talk with Óin and from worrying about the task the old Dwarf has set him.

He thought that... Well, to be honest he doesn't really now what he thought. That time would heal all wounds, maybe. That if he forced himself to stay away from Sigrid, to not intrude upon her life any longer, she would move on. She _is _very young still, and even if she has shown both boldness and maturity in all of their interactions – which is more than can be said of him, after all – he does suspect that those stirrings of the heart, those feelings of tenderness for someone who isn't her sibling or parent, are still fairly new to her. And while a part of himself has already known that what is between them runs deeper than a simple passing fancy, he has clung to the hope that she might still walk away from this unscathed, free to give her heart to another.

The fact that she has stopped visiting with Óin is bad enough. Fíli has not seen much of her those past few weeks, but he knows from their talks before everything got so completely, irrevocably buggered how much the chance to study under Óin meant to her. For her to give up on this opportunity, what has happened must have affected her more deeply than he hoped. And now, to be asked to force himself upon her and ask her to come back... there is no scenario he can imagine in which this is going to go well.

He could, of course, ignore Óin's request. But even if that meant that the whole matter would be forgotten – which it won't, knowing Óin or any Dwarf for that matter – Fíli himself would be unable to forget. It is one thing to deny his own heart what it wants and to bear the pain that doing so inevitably brings, but to know that Sigrid suffers because of him, because of how she feels about him... This will haunt him, no matter what he does.

He sighs inwardly and then gives a surprised little jerk, for his pony has suddenly stopped for no apparent reason. He blinks in confusion, having gotten lost in the maze of his thoughts more deeply than he realized. Now, he finds Ásta looking at him over her shoulder, her brows raised.

"Forgive me," he says, trying to clear his mind and focus on the present. "Did you say something?"

Ásta studies him for a moment longer. "Never mind," she says eventually, but Fíli has the distinct impression that she _does_ mind. Before he can try to appease her, a look of determination flashes across her face and she grins at him. "What do you say," she says, "are you up to a little race?"

And with that she claps the spurs to her horse and disappears down the gentle slope they have been following, dust whirling behind her. Fíli stares after her in bewilderment, for he certainly has not expected this turn of events. "Wait!" he calls, but Ásta does not stop and he can hear her laughter carrying over the gentle breeze.

That's when he remembers something that causes cold dread to settle in his stomach. Until now he has not really been paying attention where their excursion has taken them, too occupied has been his mind with the earlier events. Now, however, he recalls having taken this path before, during an outing with Thad and Flad. The rocky path Ásta is currently racing down may seem ideal for an exploration on horseback, but about half a mile from where he is currently standing the ground unexpectedly falls away rather more steeply, causing the rocky soil to become somewhat slippery.

With a muttered curse Fíli digs his heels into the flanks of his startled pony, setting off after Ásta with as much speed as the animal can manage. "Ásta!" he calls out again, but still she does not slow down and he watches in horror as she guides her pony up the slight rise that effectively obscures the ravine behind it.

Racing after her at full speed, Fíli does not have time to think about what is going to happen once he catches up with her or how he is going to prevent both her and himself from falling on the dangerous terrain. All he knows is that he would never forgive himself if she came to harm because he has been too busy daydreaming.

Ásta's head of black curls vanishes behind the rising ground and Fíli follows her, preparing himself for all kinds of terrible views once his horse has climbed high enough for him to see down into the valley. There is only a split second during which his mind registers with utmost surprise that not only is there no injured Ásta to be seen, but that she has disappeared altogether. Then the inevitable thing happens and his pony begins to struggle with the loss of solid ground beneath its hooves.

He tries his best to help the animal regain its footing by throwing himself to the side and for a few seconds he really believes that they might succeed at gliding down the steep incline in this manner, but then his pony panics and tries to leap back up the slope, throwing him off in the process. A loud _oooph _escapes his lungs as he hits the ground, but any pain he might have experienced at the impact is quickly overshadowed by the discomfort of sliding down a seemingly endless expanse of rocky ground on his back.

When he finally stops, he has a hard time distinguishing top from bottom. His vision is blurry and his ears are ringing, making him feel as if he has been submerged under water for too long. Eventually he becomes aware of the blue sky above him and a blurry shape leaning over him. He must have hit his head harder than he thought, for for a heart stopping moment he fancies himself to be looking up into soft, smooth features and hazel eyes, framed by strands of light brown hair.

"Are you a dream?" he rasps, wanting to raise his hand to brush his fingers against those soft curls, but finding that his muscles refuse to obey him.

His vision smiles and tilts her head to one side. "I am as real as you allow me to be," she says and Fíli frowns, for the voice he hears does not match the face he is gazing up at.

He blinks repeatedly and Sigrid's lovely features swim before his eyes to be replaced by Ásta's. Her face shows a mixture of concern and amusement as she reaches out to gently cup his jaw. "You had me rather scared there, for a moment." She gives a small laugh. "Can you imagine the trouble I would be in if I failed to return the king in one piece?"

Under different circumstances Fíli might have taken her cue and engaged in a bit of lighthearted banter. Now, though, her words barely register with him, for he has just realized, with utmost certainty, that he cannot marry Ásta.

"I'm sorry," he says, that dense fog still not having cleared from his head. "I'm so, so sorry."

"Don't be silly," Ásta returns, understandably failing to grasp the meaning of his words. "I almost fell myself and only managed to redirect my horse's steps at the last instant."

Recovering his senses sufficiently to understand that this is neither the time nor the place to be having the discussion he just realized they will need to have soon, Fíli cranes his neck to cast a look around. "My pony?" he asks.

Ásta nods towards the bottom of the slope. "Fared much better than you did." Fíli follows her gaze and finds his pony grazing peacefully in one of the rare patches of green in the otherwise barren land. Upon feeling his eyes on it the animal at least has the decency to assume a somewhat guilty look.

With a small grunt and a considerable amount of pain, Fíli pushes himself into a sitting position and takes a moment to assess the extent of his injuries. His back is sore as are his ribs, but he is rather confident that nothing is broken. The outer layer of his clothing is ruined, but thanks to the thick leather of his coat the skin on his back is not the flayed mess it would have been without it. There's a tickling sensation on his left temple and after raising a hand to it he frowns in dismay when his fingers come away coated in red.

"It is but a mere scratch," Ásta assures him, leaning forward to press a handkerchief against the wound. Rather than have her fuss over him, Fíli takes the piece of cloth from her and continues to apply a gentle pressure, looking at the ground rather than at his companion, his revelation from a few moments ago still firm in his mind.

Ásta sinks back onto her heels and studies him for a long moment. "We should get you back," she says eventually, her voice gentle. He really must look quite the mess. "You could ride with me if you do not feel well."

"No," he says immediately and then, when a hurt look crosses her face, "No, but thank you. And I'm sorry that our outing gets cut short."

A corner of her mouth lifts at that. "You will find a way to make it up to me."

"I shall try," he replies, hoping that his lack of enthusiasm does not seep into his voice.

It takes them longer to return to the gates of Erebor than it did for them to come out here, Ásta again taking the lead and setting a slow pace. Fíli is aware of the concerned looks she keeps casing over her shoulder, but does not meet her eyes. They will have to have a serious conversation before too long, but he needs to get his thoughts in order first. If he went into this with his mind as muddled as it is right now, he would risk hurting her more than necessary. In fact he does not want to hurt her at all, but it looks as if there is no way around that. Keeping up this farce in the full knowledge that his heart would never be hers – that would bring her a lot more unhappiness that the sharp, quick pain of injured pride would.

Back inside the mountain, Fíli gratefully accepts Ásta's offer to tend to both their ponies – her way of showing that she does feel a little guilty still for being the one responsible for his little accident – and heads back to his rooms, dodging worried glances and evading inquiries after his well-being on the way. Alone in his quarters, he carefully peels layer after layer of clothing off his upper body, revealing purple bruises over the whole expanse of his back. No blood, though.

A look in the mirror reveals the reason for all those concerned glances in the hallways, for the side of his face is covered in dried blood, strands of hair sticking to it. That, together with the layer of dust and dirt that appears to cover his entire body, lends him a positively frightful look.

Chuckling a little at the amount of gossip that his appearance is sure to generate, Fíli fetches a clean cloth and wets it in the water-basin placed on his nightstand. He starts with the blood and then proceeds to rub at the grime covering his face, his neck, his hands, rinsing the cloth again and again. When he is finished the water in the basin has turned a reddish brown and the once crisp white cloth has become a filthy rag.

He pulls on a fresh linen shirt, but does not bother to do the lacings all the way up. He has no intention of receiving company in the immediate future, so who cares about being dressed in a manner proper for a king. Grabbing a roll of parchment and a quill, he sits down in his favorite seat by the window and takes a couple of deep breaths in order to focus his thoughts on the task at hand.

Going to Dale to see Sigrid is out of the question – how would he explain doing so to anyone, especially to her father? And since she is clearly not coming to Erebor any longer a letter it will have to be that convinces her to resume her studies with Óin.

But what to write? To his dismay Fíli finds that even the manner of address gives him trouble. _Dearest Sigrid_, he writes, but then crosses the words out again, feeling silly. This is not supposed to be a love letter. He wishes it could be one, but it just isn't. _Sigrid,_ he tries instead and frowns, for this sounds much too cold. In the end he decides to begin his letter without any form of address, telling himself that it is safer this way lest the letter should be opened by a third party.

However, having overcome this initial impediment, the real difficulty begins. Fíli is neither poet nor scrivener and none of his attempts at conveying the message he wants Sigrid to receive end up being even remotely satisfactory. When it is time for dinner, he finds himself surrounded by a mess of crumpled pieces of parchment, his beard sticking up at odd angles from running his fingers through it while searching for the right words.

A knock on the door has him jumping up like a startled deer and he just manages to shove his sorry attempts at a letter under a stack of maps and plans before Balin enters.

"Are you—" he begins, but then stops and just stares at Fíli in astonishment. "Whatever happened to you?"

Fíli paws at his hair and beard in a futile attempt to tame them. "Rough day," he grunts, sparing Balin an exasperated glance before moving across the room to gather some of his clothes in order to dress for dinner.

His coat really is ruined, the back of it torn up badly. Shrugging he puts it aside, picking up a leather tunic instead to wear over his shirt. He turns around after fastening his belt on top of the garment to find Balin still looking at him in obvious bewilderment.

"Do I even dare to ask?" The old Dwarf looks from the shredded coat to Fíli's wild hair and then over at the mess Fíli made while trying to clean himself up.

"That depends," Fíli replies as he passes Balin on his way to the door, "on whether it bothers you to watch your king's dignity fall to pieces before your very eyes. If it doesn't, I shall be happy to indulge you in a tale about a very unfortunate afternoon on our way to dinner."

Balin's answering frown wavers between curiosity and exasperation. As Fíli holds open the door for his friend to pass through, he casts one last look at the stack of letters peeking out from under the other documents on his table. He'll have to do better than that, not just to keep Óin off his back but also for Sigrid's sake. If only he wasn't so utterly useless with words. Maybe a full stomach will help with his endeavors.

Sure, he scoffs at himself before closing the door behind him. That, and a bottle of mead. Or two.

_...to be continued..._

_A/N: Again, sorry for the delay. I'll make up for that and for the absence of Sigrid from this chapter in the next one. That's a promise ;-)_


	18. Day 98

_A/N: I simply cannot keep this from you guys any longer, so here you are! This is an insanely long chapter with a whole bunch of things happening. I'm a bit nervous about it and very much hope that it lives up to your expectations. Enjoy! _

**Day 98**

Ninety-eight days and still Fíli is no closer to finding the words he so desperately seeks for. Having skipped communal mealtimes for the sole purpose of evading the Wrath of Óin, dinnertime finds him wandering Erebor's endless hallways restlessly and more than a little hungry.

Since his attempts at writing to Sigrid have remained so frustratingly unsuccessful, he has made some halfhearted endeavors to speak to Ásta so that he might at least hint to her that what she – and everyone else, for that matter – thinks is going to happen never will. The Blacklock princess, however, has been surprisingly unavailable these past few days, which is a startling deviation from her usual patterns. She is not stupid, Fíli tells himself. In all likelihood she has her own suspicions about his change of heart and is seeking to avoid the unpleasant confrontation they will need to have before too long.

With his thoughts distracted by hunger and too many hours of turning the same matters over and over in his mind, Fíli is inclined to dismiss the person who all but jumps in front of him at the foot of one of the broad staircases connecting the upper, more private levels of the city to the public areas below as a figment of his imagination. However, the scowl on her face – an expression he has never witnessed on her before – convinces him that that is not the case and that it is really Sigrid herself who is standing before him.

There are so many things he has considered saying to her over the past two days that now that she is really here, he finds his mind assaulted by a jumble of words, tying knots into his tongue. It is just as well, for Sigrid does not appear inclined to wait for him to speak either way.

"I want—" she begins but then breaks off, closing her eyes in what appears to be an effort to gather her courage. "I just want to say one thing," she continues and the way her voice sounds makes him suspect that she is clenching her teeth pretty hard. "I probably shouldn't, since you are king now and I am not supposed to talk to you at all without proper decorum, but I find that I cannot rest properly until I have spoken my mind."

Fíli stares at her, unable to comprehend what she speaks of. Also, the flush which anger and embarrassment have caused to appear high on her cheeks is rather distracting in the sense that it makes her look even prettier than usual.

"Very well," he says for there is no request in the world he would deny her if he can help it. "I'm listening."

Clearly, that was the wrong thing to say, although, for the life of him, he cannot fathom why.

"Why, thank you, Your Majesty, for your magnanimity," Sigrid says, her eyes narrowed dangerously.

"You are welcome?" Fíli says obtusely, wanting to slap himself the moment the words tumble off his tongue. Sigrid looks like she might explode any second – if it wasn't directed at him, he would be rather fascinated by the sheer vividness of her anger. Who knew that she had such a temper? "What was it that you wanted to say?" he asks instead, before he can get himself into more trouble still.

"I wanted to remind you that you once told me I was under no obligation to give you anything," she answers, refusing to meet his gaze and staring at a fixed point somewhere above his right shoulder instead. "And to inform you that the same is true for you. Even if as king you are free to do whatever you wish, I would ask you to refrain from gifts that are not entirely appropriate given your... _circumstances_."

Again, Fíli can only stare at her. "I'm not sure I... _what_?"

Sigrid's eyes close and she gives a long exhale, the hands she holds rigidly at her sides clenching into fists. "Please do not send me any more gifts," she says slowly, deliberately, like you might speak to a small child. Only much, much more threatening. "I have no use for such things and am certain your _fiancée_ would be very displeased if she knew."

Fíli decides to forego correcting her wrongful labeling of Ásta as his fiancée in favor of the more obvious problem with her statement. "I—I did not give you anything."

This, at least, has the effect of making her look at him, _really_ look at him, and Fíli is dismayed to discover than underneath the fury that appears to be fueling her, her eyes shine with the pain of a broken heart. She blinks it away, though, holding onto her anger. "Are you telling me then," she grinds out from between clenched teeth, "that this is not of Dwarven make?"

She thrusts her hand out towards him and Fíli sees something glitter on her upturned palm. He steps closer to examine the object. It's a delicate silver needle with a sparkling gem on one end. A hairpin, he realizes, wielded to resemble a long-stemmed rose. It's a stunning piece, but one that does not suit Sigrid at all. Also, he's seen this before, on somebody else.

"Where did you get this?" he asks and the sharpness of his tone causes Sigrid to relinquish some of her anger, her eyes darting from the trinket in her hand to meet his concerned gaze.

"It was left at our house for me," she says, her confusion obvious in her widened eyes. "I thought that since it was my birthday last week you might have... You really did not send this to me?"

"I did not," he answers grimly while he considers the evidence placed before him. This is Ásta's hairpin, he has no doubt about that for since that first day of her stay at Erebor, he has seen her wear it on several occasions. But why on earth would she—

That is when the pieces of the puzzle finally fall into place for him. Thad and Flad's warning. The poisoned mead. Ásta's face when she watched him speak to Sigrid after his coronation. Her mood three days ago, after his conversation with Óin. She knows. She knows that there is something between him and Sigrid, something that shouldn't be there at all. But if that is the case, then that can only mean...

His eyes widen in horror. "Drop it," he snarls and then, when Sigrid simply stares at him in bewilderment, "Drop the pin. Now."

Seconds inch by with aching slowness as Fíli watches Sigrid slowly turn her hand, the pin sliding off her palm to fall to the ground with an innocent clink. They both stand and stare at the small piece of jewelry lying on the floor between them.

"I don't understand—" Sigrid begins, but Fíli holds up his hand to stop her and crouches down in front of the pin.

"Do you have a handkerchief on you?"

Sigrid nods and produces a clean, white handkerchief from a pocket in the folds of her skirt. Fíli takes it from her and carefully wraps it around the pin before picking it up.

"I need you to come with me," he says. "Please," he adds, when Sigrid looks as if she is about to argue.

He almost sighs in relief when she gives a small nod instead and without further ado he leads her back up the stairs he has just descended and then up another, more narrow staircase which takes them to the level that houses the king's quarters. She has been up there before, of course, on the night of his birthday. Still, Fíli is glad that the halls are mostly deserted during dinnertime and that no one is around to witness the heat in his cheeks as he leads her straight to his private rooms, not stopping before he has ushered her inside and closed the door behind them.

He cannot know for certain where Sigrid expected he would take her, but clearly it wasn't his bedroom, for once inside, she stops dead, her cheeks pink as she takes in the sight of his large four-poster bed and the variety of his belongings that are strewn across the room.

"I still cannot—I still don't understand," she says. Fíli notices that her anger appears to have left her, leaving only shyness and a profound sense of embarrassment behind. He forces himself not to linger on the slight breathlessness of her voice.

Rather than answering her, he strides across the room to a bowl of fruit he's had brought up from the kitchens earlier in an attempt to appease his empty stomach. Selecting a shiny red apple, he takes it over to her. He holds it up between their bodies and brings the pointy end of the hairpin he still clutches in his other hand to it, careful to keep the rest of the trinket wrapped in her handkerchief.

He pierces the peel of the fruit with the pin, dragging it downward to create a small incision. Then he watches in horrified fascination as the peel around the cut begins to blacken and wither, the darkness slowly spreading outward from the cut until the whole apple lies rotten on his upturned palm.

"Poison," he says without taking his eyes off the shriveled fruit.

"I—what—" Sigrid stares at the apple, lifting a hand as if to touch it, but then letting it drop to her side again. "If I had put this in my hair..."

"One small scratch might have been enough," Fíli confirms grimly. Something cold and hard grips his heart at the very thought of it.

"Who would do such a thing?" Sigrid's eyes are wide with both fear and hurt, her fingers having drifted to her head to absently run them through her hair and she has pulled loose a few strands from the knot at the back of her neck without realizing it. She looks so... _innocent _at that moment that Fíli feels hot rage bubble up inside of him at the knowledge that somebody would dare to try harm her.

"I know exactly who would," he growls, averting his eyes from her because he does not want her to see the things reflected in them that his anger might make him capable of. He turns away from her, wrapping the hairpin safely in her handkerchief once more. The apple he puts on his bedside table to dispose of later. "I need you to stay in here while I take care of a couple of things," he tells her, still not daring to raise his eyes to hers.

"What are you going to—" She falls silent and when she speaks again, her voice has lost its fearful edge. "You are going to confront whoever did this," she states flatly.

Fíli inclines his head, his hand already on the doorknob. "I am. And until I have done so, I have to know you are safe."

"You can't just lock me in here!" She sounds more offended by the idea than he would have expected her to be and he briefly closes his eyes, hating to cause her even more distress.

"It's for the best. I can't—I cannot focus on what needs to be done unless I know you are out of harm's way."

If he thought that his admission how much she matters to him would shock her into agreeing with him, he was gravely mistaken.

"I am no damsel to be kept in a tower," she cries. "I can look after myself."

He turns his head to look at her over his shoulder. The flame of her anger has been rekindled, her eyes gleaming dangerously as she takes up a stubborn stance, her chin jutting out. He has no doubt that she does know how to handle herself in a variety of situations, but not in this. She has no way of knowing what she has gotten herself in the middle of – this is his responsibility, his mess to clean up.

"I'm sorry," he says as he turns to open the door. "I will be back as soon as I can."

And with that he steps through the door, pulling the key from the lock on its inside. His last view before he pulls the door shut behind him is of Sigrid's expression of incredulous betrayal.

He locks the door, his heart clenching with every turn of the key. Let her hate him. The only thing that matters right now is keeping her safe.

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

After seeking out Glorin to instruct him to guard the door to his rooms and not allow anyone in except himself, Fíli feels assured at last that for the time being no harm can come to Sigrid. He does not personally like Glorin very much but knows that he can depend on him to do his bidding without asking questions – even in the event that the current inhabitant of his private quarters should become rather vocal about her displeasure with her confinement.

It is thus not exactly with a lighter heart but certainly with a more focused mind that he approaches Ásta's rooms. He does not bother knocking before entering, which earns him some curious looks from a group of Dwarves just returning to their quarters from dinner, but he does not even acknowledge them.

Apparently, Ásta, too, has made it a habit to avoid communal dinners for as he enters her room, Bersa, her lady-in-waiting, is just about to clear away their dishes. Both women stare at him in surprise and for a moment there is a flicker of excitement in Ásta's eyes, like maybe she thought that he has finally come to make their engagement official. Then she catches sight of the look on his face and blanches.

"Leave us," she says to Bersa, her eyes fixed on Fíli.

Bersa hesitates for a moment, looking between her mistress and the young king with apprehension. "Are you quite sure—"

"Go," Ásta interrupts her, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Quickly Bersa gathers what appear to be her knitting things from a nearby chair and hurries past Fíli to the door. He does not move an inch while she does so, nor does he acknowledge her presence by any means. His eyes are trained on Ásta, waiting for her to make the first move.

As soon as the door falls shut behind him the Blacklock princess rises from her seat and casually strolls across the room to set a book she has been holding on her lap on her nightstand. This has the effect of placing her on the far side of her bed – a clever move, Fíli admits, for if he were to bodily assault her (which he isn't), this would mean that the wide bed would prevent him from coming straight at her.

As things stand, he takes a couple of measured steps into the room, removing the hairpin from his pocket while he does so. He tosses it onto the mattress between them, the handkerchief falling open to reveal the object wrapped inside.

He watches Ásta study the pin for several seconds and thinks for a moment that she might try to play the innocent and deny any knowledge whatsoever of the pin and its harmful properties. That would be a desperate move indeed and Fíli feels that he would be strangely disappointed in her should she choose this path. She doesn't.

"I did it for your own good," she says, her tone as neutral as if they were discussing the weather.

"My own good," he repeats flatly, his carefully contained fury robbing his voice of most of its volume. The silence in the room is so heavy that he can almost taste it on his tongue as he opens his mouth to speak again. "And Thad? Was that for my own good as well?"

Ásta's mask slips for a moment at his mention of the young Dwarf, distaste twisting her lips into an unbecoming sneer. "The brothers were seeking to cloud your judgment. They were – and will continue to be – a harmful influence."

"Bofur almost _died_," Fíli grinds out from between clenched teeth. "I might very well have died myself that night if the circumstances had been different."

At this, Ásta looks almost remorseful. "I miscalculated," she mutters. "I acted rashly without considering all the eventualities."

Fíli can only be astonished at her calm analysis of those events. "I cannot believe you would do this. I cannot believe I was so _wrong_ about you."

A humorless bark of laughter. "What did you expect?" she asks harshly. "An innocent princess such as that little plaything of yours that sits around and does nothing while watching you go around playing king? Admit it – you do not really know what you are doing. You need someone strong at your side, someone who is willing to do what ever it takes to secure your position. Someone like me."

Her words have caused his anger to rise inside of him like bile, but still he keeps a firm lid on it. "I could never be with someone like you," he hisses. "Not for all the treasures or all the political successes in the world. What you have done invokes only contempt – not recognition, as you seem to believe."

Her jaw set stubbornly, Ásta holds out her arms to both sides in a halfhearted display of defeat. "What will you do with me then? Throw me into the dungeons?"

"No," Fíli returns promptly and takes pleasure in the fact that clearly Ásta has not expected this reply, her arms dropping to hang limply at her sides. "I would not even want you in my dungeons. You and your people will remove yourselves from Erebor without delay. Should you fail to comply with this, I will see to that you will be cut off from trade with the other Dwarven populations entirely. Your clan will fall into both poverty and isolation."

He watches Ásta's confidence waver as he has known it would. If there is one thing you can depend on in any Dwarf, it is that the threat of dispossessing them of their riches is likely put them into a state of anxiety.

"The same thing will come to pass should I hear of any more poisonings or unexplained deaths among your acquaintances," he adds.

Ásta glares at him from across the bed, completely rigid except for the quick rise and fall of her chest. Her disdain is tangible and Fíli can feel the hairs on his arms rise in response to it. Still, she knows better than to argue with him, understands that he is done playing games and being pushed around like a pawn in a game of chess, sacrificing himself so that others can have their needs met.

He looks at her for what he suspects will be the last time, waiting for at least a certain measure of regret to set in. For a short while, at least, he thought that they could become something more. That they could be good together. The regret won't come and he realizes that is because he does not even know the woman before him – everything she did, every moment they spent together, has been an act in her effort to try and get him to choose her.

Without so much as a nod, he turns and heads for the door. Only when he reaches for the doorknob does Ásta speak up again.

"That girl will be your ruin," she snarls in what can only be a final attempt to provoke a more emotional reaction from him.

"And your hatred will be yours," he returns, stone-cold, not even turning to look at her.

He yanks open the door and steps through, letting it swing shut behind him. That's that, then.

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

When Fíli returns to his private quarters, Glorin is still in position as he was instructed to be.

"Your Majesty," he greets upon seeing him approach. The fact that his tone does not even imply the slightest bit of questioning proves once again that Glorin was exactly the right choice for this job.

Fíli inclines his head. He casts a quick look around and is relieved to find the corridor deserted except for the two of them.

"Stay here," he says, keeping his voice low lest someone should be near still, unseen. "And don't let anyone pass until I tell you otherwise."

Glorin's eyes have remained fixed on the wall opposite and he gives a single, sharp nod. "Understood, Your Majesty."

Fíli steps around his loyal guard and allows himself a calming breath or two before entering his rooms. He could really use the advice of the version of his brother his mind likes to conjure, but for once his imagined Kíli maintains a resolute silence.

Darkness has begun to fall outside and the only sources of light in his quarters are the fireplace and a single candle on his bedside table. For a moment, Fíli thinks that somehow Sigrid has managed to leave his rooms after all, but then he catches sight of her slim silhouette by the window. Her back is turned to him and she is gazing at the sky, the last bits of color slowly fading from it as night claims their world.

Fíli steps closer but stops a few feet away when she does not acknowledge his presence in any way.

"The party from Rhûn will be leaving Erebor at first light," he informs her, the cowardly part of himself prompting him to stick to more factual matters for the time being.

"It really was her then."

It wasn't a a question, but Fíli answers it anyway.

"Yes," he says, worried by the flatness of her voice. "But she will not be causing you any more trouble. Or anybody else, for that matter."

"Good." Sigrid turns around, but to Fíli's dismay she is not looking at him, her face impassive and her eyes fixed on the ground. "I shall take my leave of you then."

Fíli, taken aback by the resignation in both her tone and manner, fumbles for something to say. Sigrid abandons her place by the window and moves toward the door, brushing past him without looking up. Now that the sparse amount of light in the room illuminates her features more fully, Fíli can see that her usually so shapely lips form a hard line on her youthful face. Also, he believes he sees tear stains on her pale cheeks.

Before he can stop himself his hand shoots out to grasp her arm as she passes him.

"Don't leave," he says. When he realizes that this sounds as if he is inviting her to spend the night in his quarters, he adds, "Allow me to have a room prepared for you. You shall miss no comforts and I will assign you my most reliable guard. I would feel much better that way than if you were to return to Dale now, after nightfall and without adequate protection."

Her eyes shift to his and Fíli is relieved to see at least a bit of their previous spark returned to them.

"I have told you before – I'm no princess to be locked up and be kept away from the world." She takes half a step back, forcing him to release his hold onto her unless he wants to grab her more forcefully.

"I know that," he amends, missing her warmth beneath his fingers as he drops his hand to limply hang at his side. "But I also know my own people and am a better judge of situations like this than you are. I apologize if I offended you by forcing you to stay behind, but it was the right thing to do."

The flicker in Sigrid's eyes blazes into a flame. "I don't need your protection! I'm more than capable of looking after myself. I'm not a child."

"Trust me, I'm very much aware of that fact." The words slip from his tongue before he can stop them and he feels color rise in his cheeks.

Sigrid, meanwhile, is too caught up in her indignation to notice. "Then don't treat me as one!" she cries.

Slowly but surely Fíli feels his patience waver. All he has ever wanted was to keep her safe. Is that really so wrong?

"You were almost poisoned just a few hours ago. You could have died, for Mahal's sake!" he shoots back, the mere thought still causing his heartreate to pick up.

Sigrid crosses her arms in front of her chest, her expression growing cold. "I suppose that is what I deserve for getting too close to you and this blasted mountain."

Ouch. That stung.

Fíli sighs and turns away from her, walking the few steps necessary to sit down on the edge of his bed. He cannot help but feel like he just lost a battle he hadn't even known he was fighting.

"What do you want me to do, then?" he asks while staring at the floor, his shoulders slumped with resignation. "Pretend that none of this happened? Pretend that I do not care?"

"Yes," Sigrid says stubbornly. "Just let me go about my business while you go about yours. Go and be happy. If not with Ásta then with another. That shouldn't be too difficult."

Fíli feels something inside of him snap at her words and suddenly anger is coursing through his veins, hot, red, all-consuming. It's not so much anger at Sigrid – even though she is being rather obstinate right now – but rather at fate and at himself for allowing himself to be maneuvered into this position.

"How could it be anything but difficult?" he demands, agony tearing at his heart. "How could I ever tie myself to another when it's you, you, _you_, in my thoughts, in my heart, in my dreams? Always you. Only you."

He started out yelling, but towards the end his voice has become soft.

"Is that really how you feel?"

He looks up to find Sigrid staring at him, her face pale, its flush having abandoned her alongside her anger. He nods, once, before he drops his head into his hands, defeated. "Aye." His voice is hoarse, not so much from shouting but from laying his soul bare in front of her. "Aye, that's exactly how I feel."

There's silence for a long moment and then he feels his mattress shift as Sigrid lowers herself onto it, not close enough for them to be touching, but still so near that he can feel her warmth seep into his skin, his bones, his soul.

"Well, then," she says.

He expects her to say more, to tell him how inappropriate his feelings are and that he should stay away from her from now on, but she doesn't. When she still hasn't spoken after several long, agonizing moments, he lifts his head from his hands to look at her and finds her studying him like she sees him for the first time, a timid fascination shining in her eyes that has him holding his breath in anticipation.

They both move at the same moment, shifting on the mattress so that they are now facing each other. A couple of heartbeats pass which Fíli allows for fate to change its mind, to stage some sort of intervention. Nothing happens, the only sound the low hissing and popping from the small fire in his hearth and the drum of his own pulse in his ears.

"Well then," he repeats her words from a few moments ago and leans forward in the same instant she does. There is a split second during which he watches her eyes flutter closed, her lashes dark against her pink cheeks.

Then their lips touch and his world both ends and begins anew.

With their first kiss not even having been a real kiss at all, there is nothing that could have prepared Fíli for the rush of feeling that the touch of her lips – soft, pliant beneath his – elicits. A small gasp escapes his lips when his heart stutters and he is intrigued to discover that the action causes Sigrid to open herself to him, her lips parting by a fraction to invite him in.

He follows her invitation with the enthusiasm that it is due, his hands coming up of their own volition to cradle her face between them. He tilts his head a little as he allows his tongue a first taste of her, shyly asking permission with a gentle lick against her lower lip.

Sigrid responds with a small sound at the back of her throat that sets his insides on fire. She scoots at little closer still and he feels her hands come to rest against his chest as they deepen their kiss.

It's all sensation after that for a while and if Fíli wasn't so busy kissing her, he would be crying out with joy over the pleasure that it is to taste Sigrid on his tongue, to feel her pressed against him. When he comes to his senses again and pulls back just far enough to be able to study her face, he realizes that somehow she has ended up in his lap, her legs straddling him while one of his hands is cupping the back of her neck and the other is pressed against the small of her back, holding her firmly in place. It's altogether scandalous.

He blinks at her. "By my beard," he mutters. "Bard will have my head for this.

Sigrid leans back a little to raise her eyebrows at him and Fíli has to fight very hard in order to not allow his eyes to roll back into their sockets when this move increases the pressure of her body against his.

The ghost of a smile lifts the corners of her mouth. "Do you always bring up a girl's father after kissing her senseless? Because, let me assure you, that is not what is commonly considered romantic."

He half laughs, half growls and proceeds to pull her in for another kiss. After having ravished her mouth rather thoroughly, he pulls back again. Smoothing a couple of locks from her forehead and tucking them behind her ear, he grins at her.

"I do not believe I have ever kissed anyone quite like this before." His smile turns into a frown. "I was being serious, though. Even if he does not find out about this—" he gestures between them, "—he is going to kill me just for keeping you here at this late hour."

Sigrid smiles warmly and reaches up to smooth the frown on his forehead with her fingertips. "He won't find out," she says. "He is not even in Dale right now and I can depend on my siblings to keep a secret. Also, I have my ways of keeping him in the dark about things which he does not have to know."

Fíli scowls. "If this is the moment you tell me that you have sweethearts all over Dale whom you visit after nightfall, please be advised that we Dwarves do not take kindly to competition."

Her answering laugh is genuine. "You have no reason to be jealous, Master Dwarf. It's only ever been you."

Her voice has grown tender towards the end and despite the things they have just done – not to mention the fact that she is still in his lap – the look she gives him is almost heartbreakingly shy. Warmth pools somewhere deep inside of him and he pulls her mouth down to his for another kiss, more chaste than the last one.

Before things can grow heated between them once again, he pulls away, leaning his forehead against hers while he fights for his composure. "Please allow me to have a room prepared for you," he says again once he trusts his voice not to fail him. "I _need_ to know that you are safe tonight."

Sigrid gives him a long look and then, to his utmost relief, a small nod. "I doubt that any of us are ever truly safe, but if it puts your mind at ease, then yes, I'll stay."

"It most certainly will," Fíli mutters and briefly touches his lips to hers before gently nudging her off his lap, pushing himself off the mattress until they both stand, still touching, but not as intimately as before.

He reaches down and grasps her hand, bringing it to his lips. "Just give me a moment," he says, "while I speak to my guard."

Her eyes follow him as he crosses over to the door, the blush on her cheeks deepening when he sends her a self-conscious grin as he awkwardly rearranges his clothes to conceal the rather prominent evidence of their encounter. One steadying breath and he opens his door far enough to slip through.

Glorin is still in position outside, although, from the surprised jerk he gives when addressed, Fíli suspects that he was about to fall asleep on his feet. Which is understandable, really, considering how long he has been standing there already with nothing to look at except the wall opposite.

After instructing Glorin to have two of his most trustworthy men prepare one of the nicer rooms in the vicinity of his own quarters – rooms that are ordinarily reserved for the more powerful among their visitors – he lowers his voice to little more than a whisper, looking around to make sure that they are not being overheard.

"It is of utmost importance that the room is guarded for the entirety of the night," he says, laying his hand on the shorter Dwarf's shoulder in a gesture that invokes utmost trust. "If you are too fatigued to do so yourself, have one of your men do it. Also, word of the identity of our guest must not be spread around. The peace between Erebor and Dale is at stake here, and I believe we all know that we are in no position to risk a falling out with Bard and his people."

Glorin takes in those words with stoic seriousness, his deep-set eyes unblinking. If he is at all curious about whom Fíli is hiding in his rooms or how that person might factor in a potential conflict with Dale, he hides it well. Fíli would have expected no less of him.

"I will see to it personally, Your Majesty," the redhead grunts, inclining his head respectfully.

"Thank you," Fíli says earnestly and watches Glorin's back straighten a little further still with the faith placed in him. "Fetch me when the rooms are ready."

With that he slips back into his own room, where Sigrid is already waiting for him, her hands twisting nervously in the folds of her skirt. When their eyes meet her stances relaxes, though only by a fraction. Fíli wants to take her in his arms again, but knows that one thing can only lead to another and they have crossed enough boundaries tonight as it is. Besides, Glorin could be back at any minute.

Instead of the passionate embrace which his heart and body demand, he thus strides over to her and takes both her hands in his, running his thumbs across their backs until he feels her fingers relax in his. "You will stay just down the hall from here," he says, looking at their joined hands. "Glorin will be on guard – he's very efficient and rather... discreet."

Sigrid gives a nervous chuckle. "That it a good thing, I suppose."

Fíli looks up and flashes her a wry grin. "Aye, it is, isn't it." He pauses, his thumbs still drawing circles on the soft skin of her hands. "I shall have Óin come fetch you in the morning. He will be so delighted to have you to himself again that he won't question your reasons for being here."

She smiles wistfully at the mention of the old healer. "I've missed him, too," she says.

Fíli returns her smile and reaches up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. There's a small flutter of affection in his chest when she leans her head into his palm. "It should not strike anyone as odd if you leave for Dale after working with Óin. The Blacklocks will have left by then, too, so there should not be any more danger to you."

"Will I see you tomorrow?" Sigrid bites her lip, not quite meeting his gaze, and all Fíli can think about is how he wants to take that lip between his. He clears his throat.

"You will," he assures her. "But not like this, I'm afraid." He gestures between them and feels a bit of color rise in his cheeks at the though of what 'this' might lead to if only they got the chance to repeat it.

"I understand," Sigrid replies. An impish smile crosses her face. "Not tomorrow, then, but another time."

Fíli cannot stop the wide grin that forms on his lips. "Another time," he repeats. His grin fades and he frowns at their clasped hands again, searching for the right words. "I wish..." he begins, but then breaks off. Yes, what does he wish for? That she did not have to go? That they did not have to make a big secret out of whatever this is? That things were different, simpler?

Sigrid squeezes his hand, causing him to look up at her again. "What I wish for," she says, "is for you to not regret this."

"I won't," he says without a second's delay. "That I can promise you with utmost certainty. Other than that, however..." Again he trails off, not wanting to fill the silence between them with some of the uncomfortable truths of their connection.

"I'll take it," Sigrid says, surprising him. "It's enough for me. For now."

Fíli can do nothing but stare at her, this wonderful young woman who, for reasons he cannot entirely comprehend, chooses him and the complications which he carries with him wherever he goes over everything else. Over every_one_ else. It's marvelous – he can't think of another word for it.

A knock on the door tears him out of his thoughts and he reluctantly releases his hold onto Sigrid and takes a half step back.

"That will be Glorin," he says, feeling oddly bereft now that he is no longer touching her. From the look on her face, Sigrid appears to feel the same.

She is silent as he escorts her to the door. When he reaches out his hand to open it, though, she stops him. with a hand on his arm. He looks at her questioningly, but before he can ask her what she has in her mind, her lips are on his again, her kiss stealing his breath away. It is over before his mind truly registers what is happening and he finds himself grinning up at her like the biggest of fools.

Her smile, too, is rather sheepish. "Goodnight?" she says, her tone questioning, tentative.

"Goodnight," he returns, trying – and failing – for a firmer voice.

He opens his door then, and silently nods at Glorin who is waiting outside. The seasoned soldier shows no reaction whatsoever to the fact that his king had Bard's daughter in his private rooms at this time of day and merely gestures for Sigrid to come with him, his head lowered respectfully as she passes him by.

Fíli watches them go, his knuckles white on the wood of his door from the restraint he has to exercise in order not to run after them. Out of the many decisions he has made today this might have been the only truly rational one, but that does not change the fact that his heart mourns it as the wrong one.

Before he can change his mind, he turns and steps back into his room, closing the door behind him. As he crosses over to his bed, he has a brief vision of Kíli leaning casually against the wall beside it, winking at him while a knowing grin tugs at his lips.

"Now you show up," Fíli grumbles, but feels a grin of his own lift the corners of his mouth.

He flops down onto his bed without bothering to undress. He does not believe he shall sleep tonight, not with all of this restless energy coursing through his veins, his mind replaying the events of the last hours over and over again.

Marvelous indeed, is his last thought before sleep unexpectedly and mercilessly claims him. And for the first time in months he sleeps like a baby.


	19. Day 99

_A/N: Another delay, sorry. 6K chapters seem to be my new thing. As always, thanks for reading and, especially, reviewing. Every comment makes my silly heart skip a beat or two. _

**Day 99**

"The Blacklocks are leaving. What in Mahal's name did you do?"

On the ninety-ninth day Fíli is roused from sleep by the loud bang of his door hitting the wall and Balin's voice that wheezes slightly from running up too many stairs in too short an amount of time.

He sits up in bed, blinking in annoyance as he pushes the remnants of a very pleasant dream from his mind. But then again, it's not as if he hasn't expected something like this.

"I did what needed to be done," he says and swings his legs off the side of his bed, rubbing his palms across his face. He's glad that he did not dress for bed last night, for while Balin has seen him in all kinds of humiliating situations, this is a conversation he would rather not be having in his nightshirt. "Actually, you ought to be proud of me," he adds. "I opted for a course of action that appeared to me as the least detrimental to the peace within our kingdom."

Balin does not even react to that last bit and merely gapes at him, obviously in a bit of a shock. "Please tell me that this is unrelated to the fact that Bard's daughter spent the night in a room down the hall."

Now it is Fíli's turn to stare at Balin. "I'm not sure what you—"

"Don't even bother denying your knowledge of that fact," Balin warns him. "And before you ask – Glorin would not have parted with that bit of information had his life depended upon it. Surely you must know, though, that the mountain has its eyes and ears everywhere."

"You mean to say _you _have eyes and ears everywhere," Fíli grumbles, cursing himself for underestimating Balin's means of obtaining information. At least he did not err in trusting Glorin, though – even if that doesn't exactly help him now.

"Well?" Balin prods.

Fíli recalls a strategy then that he learned in his youth from none other than the master of all mischief himself – Kíli. After an endless series of punishments and repercussions for his mad schemes, his brother eventually figured out that if you wanted to hide something, it was easiest to do so in plain sight. "Tell just enough of the truth to satisfy initial curiosity," he remembers Kíli lecture him. "Outright denial will only make you seem suspicious. If you dangle the truth in front of someone's face, though, there's a good chance that they will leave it alone eventually."

"There has been an attempt on Sigrid's life," he thus says to Balin, "I did not think that our relationship with Dale would survive the death of one of Bard's children at the hands of one of our own. So I asked her to stay here, where she can be protected."

"I—what—" Balin stammers but then composes himself. "Who would want to go after the lass? Forgive me, but that does not make an awful lot of sense."

"It does if you are blinded by hatred and prejudice," Fíli says. He sighs, knowing that what comes next will shock Balin. "It was Ásta. She tried to poison Sigrid. It was also her behind Bofur's accidental poisoning. The wine was never meant for me – Thad and Flad were her target."

"The brothers?" Balin's bushy eyebrows are quite close to disappearing beyond his hairline. "What did they ever do to her?"

"They warned me against her and her family. I didn't want to believe it at the time, but now..." Fíli walks over to his dresser and pours himself a glass of water from a carafe, drinking deeply before he turns to face Balin again. "The point is that the evidence is irrefutable. And Ásta has not even denied any of it – the brothers were a likely source of opposition and so she tried to get rid of them. Apparently that is what she does when someone gets in her way. "

Balin walks a few steps across the room and sinks down in his usual chair, not even bothering to remove the papers scattered across it. He looks so utterly disappointed that Fíli cannot help but pity him.

"And what happens now?" the older Dwarf asks with the air of someone whose carefully laid out plans have just been shattered before his eyes. "How are we—oh ye gods, there is going to be some sort of retaliation, isn't there?"

Fíli takes the chair opposite and leans forward to look at his friend, his elbows resting on his knees. His posture exudes a lot more confidence than he feels. "Nothing is going to happen," he says. "I made sure of that. If Ásta or her family so much as look at someone the wrong way, the consequences will be rather severe. They have been allowed to leave peacefully – which, as you have just confirmed for me – they already did."

"Aye," Balin says, "they left without a word to anyone. I thought—forgive me, but I thought that you had rejected Ásta or insulted her in some other way to prompt them to take such drastic action. I should not have doubted you. Please forgive me."

Fíli's eyes stray from Balin's pleading ones and he stares at his own hands instead. "I _was_ going to reject Ásta's offer," he eventually admits. "I just had not yet found the courage or the words to do so."

"Oh." Fíli can hear the creak of Balin's chair as he leans back in it, the air rushing out of the older Dwarf's lungs in a sigh. "May I ask why? I thought—I thought you had grown rather _close_."

"Not that close, obviously, if she went around trying to poison people I c— _innocent_ people right under my nose," Fíli returns, a bitter grin twisting his lips. His restlessness gets the better of him then and he pushes out of his chair, walking over to lean against the wall beside his wide, high window instead. He's looking out at the sky but can see Balin's reflection in the window glass, the white-haired Dwarf's eyes following his every movement. He sighs. "But even if she had not done those things – I could not have married her." He turns to face Balin once more. "I cannot marry for political reasons, no matter how sound they are, Balin. I just can't."

Balin stares at him for a long while, his intelligent eyes not betraying any of his feelings about that matter. Eventually he, too, sighs. "Following calculated reason is not a trait that runs particularly strong in your immediate family," he says. "It is not as if I wasn't aware of that. Still, I had begun to hope that we had set our eyes on the same goal in that matter."

"My goal is to be a good king," Fíli returns. "And I fear that marrying for the wrong reasons will not help me with that. On the contrary."

Balin folds his hands in his lap, an image of utmost composure. "I cannot force you to do anything."

He cannot. Fíli has known this all along, of course, but to hear Balin say it, reaffirms his confidence in the choice he has made. "I expected you to be more upset," he says honestly.

"I won't pretend that I am happy about this," Balin returns, "and I do fear that there will be consequences neither of us can foresee right now. But I see that you have made up your mind about the matter and it would worry me if you were to act against your own convictions. That is not what Thorin would have done and you are so very much like him."

The glimmer in Balin's eyes at those last words makes Fíli uncomfortable and he looks away, ashamed that he is hiding a substantial part of yesterday's events from this loyal follower of both his uncle and himself. He tries to think of something to say, but comes up with nothing. In the end, it is Balin who once more breaks the heavy silence between them.

"You are aware, I hope, that your decision might force us to take other measures in the future," he says, pinning Fíli with his eyes.

Fíli swallows. "What do you have in mind?"

Balin shrugs. "Only time will tell. Lucky for you, most of the families have already accepted that they will not be marrying into the royal line with Ásta being singled out as your favorite. So I do not expect too much trouble from those sides. However, I fear that the position which Erebor holds among the Dwarf kingdoms is still too weak. We will have to address that problem one way or the other."

Fíli nods. "You can count on my cooperation in whatever course of action you deem necessary."

Rising out of his chair in preparation to leave, Balin eyes him with something akin to amusement. "Be careful with those promises," he cautions him. "Or I might find you a wife after all."

Fíli chuckles, choosing to let Balin have a bit of fun at his expense. That's the least he can do for overthrowing the older Dwarf's carefully laid out plans. "I'm certain you'll think of something else."

Balin graces him with a crooked grin and makes to leave. He abruptly stops halfway across the room, though, and looks at Fíli over his shoulder. "If you don't mind me asking," he says, his brow furrowed in thought, "whatever did Bard's girl do to draw Ásta's attention?" When Fíli merely gapes at him he adds, "You said before that Ásta wanted to rid herself of anyone who got in her way. How would the young lass achieve such a thing?"

Ah, damn it, Fíli thinks. So much for hiding things in plain sight. He should have known that Balin's mind is too sharp to be diverted so easily. Before Balin has the chance to catch sight of the guilty look that crosses his face, he turns away sharply, looking out of his window again.

"I couldn't say," he says, keeping his voice deliberately disinterested, "not with certainty at least. It angered her that Sigrid's frequent presence at Erebor was so easily accepted by everyone, I believe. Not a good reason to murder someone if you ask me, but who am I to question the motives of a lunatic, right?"

He sends Balin a wry grin over his shoulder and watches the older Dwarf's lips twitch in response. His gaze, however, remains trained on him. This scrutiny makes Fíli decidedly uneasy and he turns away again. His heart is beating loudly in his chest, so loud, in fact, that he almost fears it might betray him in front of Balin.

After a few painful seconds, however, he hears the rustle of Balin's clothes and heaves a soundless sigh when he realizes that the other Dwarf is finally leaving.

"I'll need to do some thinking," Balin's voice sounds from the door, "and shall speak to you once I come up with a new course of action that takes into account the most recent changes."

"Please do," Fíli says softly. It pains him more than he would have thought to lie to Balin, but now is simply not the right time to discuss what truly occurred between him and Sigrid. It's all still much too new, too fragile, too uncertain, and Fíli is terrified of breaking something that cannot be fixed.

"Do me one favor, though, and don't do anything reckless in the meantime." Fíli thought Balin had already left and so the sound of his voice startles him. His back straightens when realizes the implications of the older Dwarf's words. "Things have been quiet recently, but we both know how quickly that can change. It would be a pity if everything we have worked for were to be jeopardized in a moment of... _temptation._"

Fíli's cheeks burn as Balin pulls he heavy oaken doors shut begin him, the click of the lock and the ensuing silence doing nothing to appease the feelings of embarrassment and guilt that course through his veins. If Balin knew how close he has just gotten to the heart of the matter, he would not be praising him for his likeness to Thorin.

Then again, the chances that Balin _does_ know and is merely waiting for Fíli to make the right choice on his own are also rather high.

The right thing... determining what that is has become increasingly complex in the more recent past, Fíli cannot help but think as his gaze sweeps across the lands stretching out below the mountain. The 'right thing' for him used to depend upon the judgment of other, more experienced men like Thorin, Balin or Dwalin. Nowadays, though, the things which they consider – or would have considered if they still lived – to be the right choice appear to be in constant conflict with one another. Not even to mention his own, frequently completely opposite convictions or what the part of himself that stubbornly insists on impersonating Kíli thinks he ought to do.

In the end, he realizes, it does not matter. As his mind drifts to the previous evening, he admits that nothing could keep him away from Sigrid now – if she'll have him, that is. He does not know how a relationship between him and her could ever be accepted by those around them and she most certainly deserves better than sneaking around behind closed doors. Still, he knows that he won't give her up, won't give _them_ up, and suspects that neither will she.

You'll have to live with your guilt, then, he tells himself and tears his gaze away from the lands below.

He listens for the sound of Balin's receding footsteps out in the hallway. Once he is confident that the older Dwarf has left, he crosses over to his bed and rummages around in the drawer of his nightstand for a bit before pulling out an unused piece of parchment. It's a bit rumpled and frayed at the edges, but will serve the purpose of the short message he intends to convey just fine.

Sitting down on his mattress, he scrawls down a short notice for Óin, informing him that his request has been fulfilled and asking him to fetch his apprentice from her temporary quarters, as he promised her he'd do. Satisfied that Óin will interpret his message correctly while any other curious eyes that might read it should be none the wiser as to whom it refers to, he seals the short letter and puts it in the pocket of his new coat.

He frowns a little as he slides his arms into the garment, the leather still rather stiff and the smell so very impersonal, almost foreign. However, after his little accident a few days ago, his old coat was nowhere near salvageable and so he will have to make do with this one.

Impatient to get going, he uses his palms to flatten his hair and pulls it into a tie at the back of his neck. After splashing a bit of water on his face from the basin on his dresser and running his fingers through his beard, disentangling it and straightening out the braids, he feels confident that no one shall notice anything suspicious about his outward appearance even if, inside and in secret, everything has changed.

Once outside his chambers, he has to summon all of his self control to not head straight for the rooms Sigrid spent her night in and turn into the opposite direction instead. Seeking her out and continuing where they left off the night before is tempting to the extent that he feels a little flutter in his chest and a tightening just behind his navel at the very thought of it, but it simply wouldn't be wise to do so. Just because he has resolved not to fight his attraction to her any longer does not mean that he should go about that in a completely reckless manner. No, he has other plans.

Hurrying down the corridor leading from his private quarters to the more public areas of the mountain, he hands the note for Óin to the first member of his guard – a stout, mousy haired individual named Bolli – he encounters, trusting that it will reach the old healer within the next half hour.

His next stop is at the kitchens where he asks one of the workers to take a tray up to Sigrid's rooms and to leave it outside her door after knocking. Satisfied that everything is taken care of to make her stay at Erebor as little awkward as possible, Fíli joins his usual crowd of people for a communal breakfast. No one remarks that he has been absent from mealtimes for the past couple of days, though Bofur makes a joke or two about the smug grin that allegedly flashes across Fíli's face now and then. He does not react to those jibes and simply continues to spoon up his porridge, his appetite better today than it has been for the longest of times.

The departure of the Blacklock clan is also among the hot topics of the morning and Fíli is acutely aware of the expectant glances thrown in his direction while speculations are being tossed around. He keeps his face blank and his stance relaxed, refusing both to refute or to affirm any of his brethren's suspicions about the reasons behind the Blacklocks' unexpected departure. Even though his opinion of Ásta and her family is forever ruined, he does not actively wish them harm and thus has no desire to feed into the rumors that have already begun to circulate. Also, the more quiet the whole affair is kept, the higher Sigrid's chances are to avoid becoming associated with Ásta's crimes. Its bad enough that her safety was threatened – now Fíli is resolved to spare her the unwelcome attention that being branded as one of Ásta's victims would be sure to bring.

No, the best way for them both to proceed is to behave as normally as possible and to not show the world how profoundly affected they are both by the most recent events. He thinks back to the night before, to how her lips felt against his, her warm body pressed up against his chest. Profoundly affected indeed, he admits to himself as he feels heat rise in his cheeks at the thought of doing any of that again. If he could somehow manage to have her with him like that every night he would be one lucky Dwarf.

"You're doing it again!" Bofur exclaims opposite him, pointing at him with his spoon and dripping blotches of porridge all over the tabletop. "That grin. Spill it, what's your big secret?"

Fíli just smiles and pops his own spoon in his mouth again, leaving Bofur to some wild speculations that range from a secret stash of mead to beating Dwalin in a wrestling match. Not even close, Bofur, he thinks. Not even close.

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

One last time. Fíli figures he can risk strolling down the corridor which houses Erebor's library one last time before his behavior becomes too suspicious. There is not much traffic in this part of the mountain, but at least two individuals have passed him twice already on his aimless wanderings along the wide, vaulted hallway and encountering them a third time would surely raise unwelcome gossip.

He takes his time as he directs his steps back in the direction he has just come from, begging with each foot that he places in front of the other for his silent pleas to be heard. He needs to see Sigrid, just once, and assure himself that what happened last night was real and not some cruel joke of his sometimes overactive mind. If he doesn't, he is sure that he shall go mad.

The first half of his day went by rather quickly with him being wrapped up in some of his usual business. As the afternoon wore on, however, he found himself growing increasingly restless, the warm glow of happiness he had experienced all morning giving way to more anxious thoughts and a deep-seated sense of loneliness. Which is how he comes to be here, now, in a part of the mountain where he has no business at all, pacing the halls like a cat waiting for a little mouse to peek out of its hole so that he may catch it. It's pathetic, really.

A few more steps and he will have passed the wide, arched entrance to the library and he knows that he cannot allow himself to turn back once he has. He slows his steps even further, craning his neck to peer inside the high-ceilinged halls that house the wisdom of generations of Dwarves. Sigrid and Óin have to be somewhere in there – he's quite sure of that for he has checked the small laboratory Óin has set up for his medicine brewing before coming here and found it empty. If only they would finish whatever it is they are doing in there so that he might have an excuse to walk Sigrid to the gates, to have a few precious (albeit mournfully public) moments with her.

Four more steps, if he were to guess, and his chances at such a meeting will have gone.

Three...

Two...

One...

Fíli almost gasps when a shadow falls across his path and he stops in his tracks at the last moment in order to avoid colliding with an enormous stack of books. Or rather with the person carrying that stack. He glances around the heavy tomes precariously balanced on top of one another and finds Óin, his lined face furrowed even further in concentration.

"Need any help there?" Fíli asks the healer, cocking a skeptical eyebrow at the swaying stack of books.

"Kelp? What would I be needin' any kelp for, lad?" Óin returns and it takes Fíli a few seconds of confused staring before he realizes that with his hands otherwise occupied, Óin is unable to use his ear-trumpet.

"Oh, never mind," he says, trying and failing to suppress a grin.

"Ah yes, very fine weather indeed." Óin jerks his head into the direction of the large bookshelves visible from the archway beyond which they are standing. "Go on then. The lass will be delighted to see you, I'd wager."

Fíli attempts an innocent look, but he needn't have bothered for Óin's attention has already returned to the books Fíli suspects he intends to take back to his workshop. He watches the old healer stagger down the hallway for a couple of feet, lightly shaking his head in amusement at their elliptic exchange.

Turning to face the entrance to the library once more, he experiences an anxious flutter inside his chest and his stomach clenches in the most peculiar manner. For a split second he struggle with the sudden impulse to leave, but then gives himself a mental slap on the back of his head. This is what he has come for, right?

He breathes a soundless sigh and steps across the threshold into the wide space beyond. Immediately, he is enveloped by a heavy silence, a silence that is different from that of the mostly deserted hallway outside. The books, they appear to absorb all sounds, leaving behind no echo, no trace. It's oppressive, this silence, and Fíli impulsively clears his throat, needing to hear something, anything.

"Hello?"

Her voice, bright and clear, chases away any feelings of confinement and the pressure Fíli has begun to feel inside his head lifts instantly. All trepidation forgotten, he strides further into the room, rounding the bookshelves which obscure the central reading area from view. And there she is, crouched over a large, dusty volume from which she has evidently been taking notes on a scroll of parchment. She has her back turned to him and he can see her pause in her annotations, letting her gaze swerve across the room in search of whoever might be intruding upon her.

"It's me," Fíli says softly, not wanting to startle her. Still, she whirls around at the sound of his voice, rising from her chair as she does so.

"Hello," she says again, her voice distinctly breathless this time. Fíli can tell that she is surprised to see him there, but whether it is a welcome surprise or not he is agonizingly uncertain of. But then Sigrid smiles a little self-consciously, her cheeks turning pink.

It should be said in Fíli's defense that his intentions in seeking her out have been thoroughly honorable, his need to ascertain that the events of the day before have not upset her too deeply outweighing any more selfish reasons he might have had to long for her company. However, as she looks at him from across the room, her lips parted slightly and her eyes glistening, reason abandons him for a little while and he finds himself striding toward her with purpose in his step, his gaze never leaving hers.

He does not stop, not until he is standing so close to her that he can feel her breath on his skin and her warmth seeping through his clothes. And even then he takes another half-step forward, backing her up against the table behind her. Her hands come up to rest on his shoulders just as he reaches up to cup her cheek in his right palm, trailing his fingers across her smooth skin until they rest against the back of her neck so that he can pull her face down towards his.

Their lips meet in a slightly uncoordinated fashion, each a little too eager for the touch of the other. Fíli pulls back by an inch or so, letting air flood his lungs to stop himself from becoming too dizzy to stand. Sigrid makes a small sound of protest that sends a bolt of lighting straight to his very core and before he knows it, they are kissing again, more controlled this time, his lips slanting across hers like they have never been used for anything else in his life.

When her tongue darts out to first trace his lips and then explore his mouth more thoroughly, Fíli surprises himself with a deep, possessive growl and his hands drop to her waist, lifting her the few inches necessary to deposit her on the edge of the table. It's a scandalous move on his part and the only thing that shocks the portion of his mind that is still capable of rational thought even more is the fact that Sigrid does not protest his actions but complies by parting her legs slightly so that he can step between them and align his body to hers even more fully than before.

His lips leave hers as he bends her backward a little, his mouth trailing across her throat and down the side of her neck. She gasps softly when he nips at her creamy skin with his teeth and for a few moments he completely loses himself in her scent, in her taste, in the way she arches her body up against his whenever he grazes a particularly sensitive spot.

It is only when he realizes that he is mere seconds away from climbing on top of her on a table in the middle of a public – deserted, yes, but still public – area that he finally comes to his senses and he forces himself to release his hold on her and to take a step back, the action leaving him bereft in ways he cannot begin to explain.

"Forgive me," he says, feeling rather embarrassed by the heavy panting that accentuates each syllable. "I assure you, that was not the reason I have come."

Sigrid, still perched on the table, straightens up and slowly slides forward until she comes to stand before him, looking down at him with eyes darkened by the intensity of their encounter and cheeks that are more flushed than ever before. "And yet it would have been a perfectly good reason to do so."

Her words are bold and daring, but the slight hitch in her breath and the little tremor in her hand as she tucks a stray curl behind her ear cause Fíli to realize that she is just as overwhelmed by this whole affair and as terrified to make a mistake as he is. And so he does the only thing that feels right and reaches out to take her hands in his, lightly lacing his fingers through hers. "Aye, it would have been indeed," he assures her, desperate to have her understand that he is by no means rejecting her.

He almost sags with relief when her gaze flickers to his and she gives a swift nod accompanied by a bashful smile. They may still be struggling to figure out which path to take with their relationship, but they do understand each other without saying much most of the time. They always have, Fili realizes as affection for the young woman in front of him crashes over him like a tidal wave and he steps closer again, leaning up to press his lips to hers in a more chaste kiss.

"Why did you want to see me, then?" she asks after he has pulled away again.

He flashes her a grin. "Just to make sure that you were well and that being forced too spend so much time in this mountain with a bunch of Dwarves has not caused you to change your mind about me..."

It's meant as a joke, but still Fíli cannot stop a hint of seriousness from creeping into his tone.

"Nothing could make me change my mind about you," Sigrid says softly, "nor about us, for that matter. In fact, my stay was rather pleasant. Someone was thoughtful enough to send a lovely breakfast up to my room."

She winks at him and he colors, romantic gestures not exactly having been part of his past interactions with women. "I wouldn't want you to set to work on an empty stomach," he mumbles and glances at the books and papers still strewn across the table. "I see that Óin has wasted no time in putting you to work again."

Sigrid rolls her eyes playfully. "That he did indeed not. I think my dreams tonight shall be filled with lists of herbs and their medicinal uses."

Fíli chuckles at that. "You know that you are under no obligation to work with Óin, right?"

Sigrid nods earnestly. "I do know that, yes. I want to work with him – his knowledge is invaluable, especially since we currently have so few healers and midwives at Dale. It was stupid of me to stop coming here when he has so much to teach me."

Fíli smiles gently and runs a finger along her arm, absently caressing the soft skin on the inside of her wrist. "I believe you could plead to mitigating circumstances with regard to that. I know _I_ would have stayed away if our positions had been reversed."

And indeed, the mere thought of Sigrid with somebody else sends his blood boiling and he has to close his eyes to keep his feelings in check. His thoughts are stopped from spiraling into dangerous terrain by the sensation of her fingers against his tense jaw and he opens his eyes to find her gazing down at him not with ridicule but with gentle understanding. He leans into her touch and feels the tension leave his body until only the warmth of what they have finally allowed to grow between them remains.

"I am glad I did come back in the end," Sigrid whispers.

"So am I." Fíli reaches up to cover her hand with his and for several moments they just stand there, leaning against each other while around them the world continues to revolve.

The distant sound of footsteps rouses them from their entranced state, cruelly reminding them that even if they are much clearer on what they are to each other than they were just a few days ago, finding a time and place to act on those feelings will continue to prove quite the challenge.

Fíli sees his own regret mirrored on Sigrid's face when he drops his hand and steps back. "You shouldn't delay your return journey for much longer," he says, even though every fiber of his being screams at him to keep her here, with him. "Two of my men will be delivering a small load of goods to Dale later. It would appease my mind greatly if you could be persuaded to ride with them."

It's a pitifully thin veiled attempt on his part to make sure that Sigrid stays safe and even if she cannot know that he specifically arranged for Thad and Flad to go to Dale so that she would not have to undertake the journey by herself, she probably sees through his scheme right away. Still, she does not call him out on it and nods her assent with a small smile on her lips. "Then that's what I shall do. Will I still have time to finish my notes?" she asks, glancing at the book which is still open on the table. "I would love to put that dusty old thing back in its place on the shelves before the day is over and not have to take it back down tomorrow."

Fíli grimaces in understanding. "Absolutely. Go ahead, then. It will be at least two hours before you need to be down at the gates." He hesitates, running his fingers through his beard a little nervously. "Do you—would you mind if I stayed? Just to keep you company, I mean. I won't distract you from your work, I promise."

He fervently hopes that she does not think him some kind of creep for asking her to allow him to stay and watch her while she finishes her task. He has no idea when he will see her next without the prying eyes of others and intends to make this meeting last, to burn the image of her as she leans over her book, her lips still swollen from their kissing and some loose strands of hair framing her lovely face into his mind to keep him company during lonely hours without her by side. For those, he is certain, will be large in number.

It feels as if his heart expands in his chest when she does not question his motivation and merely sends him a shy smile by ways of granting him permission to stay.

And so he settles himself down by her side, not close enough to be touching, but still so near that if he inhales deeply he can catch a little of her unique scent – something fresh like a spring day after a shower of rain, and something warm, like home. He watches her while she resumes her work, quickly losing herself in her studies once more, clearly entirely comfortable now in his presence.

He wonders if she has any idea at all how beautiful she is, or how her dedication to her work and her talent make her even more attractive. How she makes his heart skip a beat or two every time she glances up from her parchment and sends a small, knowing smile his way. How just being close to her makes him feel whole in ways he never thought he could be again after Kíli was ripped away from his side. Probably not, he thinks, and vows to himself not only to tell her all those things, but to show her, little by little, on each and every day that he is lucky enough to spend by her side.


	20. Day 106

_A/N: A friendly reminder that, even though it has been rather tame so far, this story is rated M for a reason. #wtfdidIjustwrite? #blameitonthequarantine_

**Day 106**

On the one hundred sixth day, Fíli has a very peculiar dream, or nightmare, rather, that follows him from sleep into wakefulness. In his dream, he is his brother and finds himself in grave danger. How he knows that he is Kíli instead of himself, he cannot say; it's just one of those things that makes perfect sense in a dream even though it's utterly implausible.

His nightmare is filled with horrid creatures – giant spiders, bloodthirsty wolves and Mahal knows what other abominations – and they all appear intent on killing him. He – or Kíli, rather – throws himself into battle with all that he has left in terms of strength, but as so often in his dreams, Fíli finds his limbs weighed down by invisible forces until they feel like lead, his movements slow and sluggish. He falls and struggles to his feet, over and over again, the last thing he sees before finally waking up being a pair of yellow eyes and a terrifying set of bared, bloodstained fangs.

The vision of an overly large wolf's head hovering just inches away from his own face stays with Fíli even after he opens his eyes. It's all a little too real, to the extent even that Fíli thinks he can feel the animal's breath brush in hot puffs over his skin and he flattens himself against his mattress, his chest rising and falling rapidly from his own quickened breathing.

Eventually the terrifying image fades, but Fíli's unease remains. It was just a dream, he knows that, but still he cannot keep it from messing with his mind. He has never overcome his anxiety over Kíli's fate, obviously, but lately he has had it under control, the instances where every nerve in his body is on fire with his desperate need to simply rush out into the world and begin a pointless search for his lost brother becoming less and less frequent. Today, however, it feels a little as if an old wound has been torn open and even after rising from his bed and starting on his usual morning routines, he finds himself restless and unfocused, his mind still with his dream version if his brother.

This will not do, he thinks and puts down the washcloth he has just begun to scrub at his face with. Staring at his reflection in the small mirror on his dresser, he realizes that he is in dire need of a bath, his hair matted to his head in several places and his skin covered by a general layer of grime from assisting with the construction work below the mountain.

Gathering up his things, he sets out for the fresh water springs located deep inside the mountain, grateful for something to do. He could of course have someone bring up the necessary things to his rooms, but he does not much care for the idea of having others carry bucket after bucket of water for him when he is perfectly fine with using the public baths.

It's still rather early in the morning and Fíli is not surprised to find the winding underground hallways and staircases mostly deserted. The caves which house the lakes that the Erebor population use for sanitary purposes are empty as well, the water's surface completely still and smooth, like a mysterious black mirror.

Some might find the picture of a dark lake inside a low-ceilinged cavern that is only sparsely lit by a handful of torches unnerving, but Fíli, being used by now to spending the majority of his time underground, feels an odd sense of peace wash over him as he takes in the scene before him.

He strips out of his clothing quickly and steps into the water, sighing as he gradually submerges his body. The water is quite cold, as might be expected of an underground lake such as this, but Fíli doesn't mind. It just feels so good to wash away the sweat and grime of the past couple of days that the water might as well have been icy for all that he cares.

He swims out into the middle of the lake with a couple of brisk strokes, warmth returning to his limbs as he does so. After drifting around in the deeper water for a little while, enjoying the illusion of weightlessness, he swims back to the shore and picks up a bar of soap which he left with his things, proceeding to scrub at himself while he sits in the more shallow water.

With his hands focused on the practiced routine of cleansing his skin, his beard, his hair, Fíli's mind begins to drift and for some reason he recalls another bath in what now feels like another life. The corners of his mouth twitch as he remembers how Thorin's entire company of Dwarves went for a swim in a truly impressive fountain right in the middle of Rivendell, all of them making a whole lot of noise as they did so.

It is not as if they weren't aware of how utterly horrified the Elven inhabitants of Elrond's home would be at their choice for a pastime – if anything, the knowledge how downright shocking and appaling their behavior would be to those aloof, rather arrogant beings made the whole business even more fun. They splashed, they jumped, they dived with childlike glee, acting as if the most challenging part of their journey was already behind them when they should have suspected that the worst was still to come.

After getting the a good portion of their excessive energy from having been cooped up in those unfamiliar, not overly welcoming surroundings for too long out of their systems, Fíli and Kíli drifted towards the edge of the fountain, lazing about in the shallow water while they watched their brethren engage in a few more rounds of laughter-fuelled fighting. In his mind's eye, Fíli can see Kíli stretch himself out beside him as if it were only yesterday, the golden light of the setting sun playfully dancing across his younger brother's features, making him look even younger than he actually was.

"Do you think we'll ever go back?" Kíli asked, gazing up at the colorful sky while he leaned his head back to rest against the fountain's smooth rim.

"Go back where?" Fíli returned, distracted for a moment by a loud whooping and a massive splash as Bombur threw himself into the water from one of the fountain's upper basins.

"Home," Kíli said, and something in his voice made Fíli wrench his gaze away from the spectacle their brethren were causing. His younger brother's eyes remained fixed on the sky above, a picture of perfect ease to anyone who might bother to look. To Fíli, however, Kíli looked vulnerable then and... _lost_, somehow.

"To the Blue Mountains, you mean?" Fíli asked, adopting the gentle voice that he only ever used with Kíli.

Kíli nodded once, his throat constricting visibly as he swallowed. "I was just thinking," he said after a prolonged silence, "that if the whole point of this quest is to reclaim our homeland, then there would be no reason for us to go back at all. We'd have a new home, wouldn't we? At Erebor."

Fíli toyed with a leaf that had floated towards him on the water's surface for a moment, twirling it around with the tip of his forefinger for a couple of times before giving it a gentle push. It drifted away from them again and was submerged by one of the little waves caused by their frolicking companions.

"Does that thought trouble you?" he finally asked Kíli, keeping his voice carefully neutral. With his brother it was sometimes best to test the waters before jumping to quick conclusions, for the young Dwarf had a tendency to bring up a matter before he had formed his own opinion on it and then got defensive when others interpreted too much into it.

As appeared to be the case now, for Kíli frowned and took a while before answering. "I'm not sure how to feel about it, to be honest. But I did promise Mum that I would return to her, didn't I?"

"I'm certain she did not take that promise quite so literally," Fíli remembers himself saying, a teasing smile curving the corners of his mouth. "She just wants to be with you – with _us_ _– _again. Whether that is at Erebor or back in Ered Luin won't matter to her."

"Aye. Aye, it won't, you're right of course," Kíli said. But still that frown did not leave his face and Fíli recognized this as one of the instances where his brother felt a bit helpless in the face of his own feelings. This would happen, sometimes, and was the cause for many of the foolish things Kíli felt compelled to do.

Realizing that right then his brother was torn between his thirst for adventure and his fears of what might await them yet on their path, Fíli did the only thing he could think of and placed a reassuring hand on Kíli's bare shoulder. "Home isn't just a place," he said. "Home is where your family is. Where _I_ am. And we are in this together, right? No matter what happens."

Kíli nodded earnestly and covered Fíli's hand with his own. "No matter what happens. Aye."

He still had an air of unusual seriousness about him as he said those words, but Fíli was relieved to see that he no longer appeared as desolate as he had moments ago. And it felt good to know that he had been the one to console his brother, to know that Kíli took comfort both in his words and his actions. They _were_ in this together and back then, at Rivendell, Fíli could not imagine for that to ever change.

Only now it has and in the most disastrous manner imaginable.

Fíli scrubs furiously at his arms, at his neck, as if he were able to wash away the sharp pain which his recollections of that tender moment between Kíli and himself bring. He can't, of course, and sinks back into the cold, shallow water with a sigh of frustration, angry with himself for letting his memories ruin his peace from a few moments ago. It's just one of those days, it appears, where things don't go the way he would like them to.

He wishes desperately for a distraction from his poisonous thoughts, but what is there for him to do? If he could see Sigrid, if only he could see her, then both his mind and his heart would be more at ease. But that, too, is not nearly as easy as he wishes it could be.

In the course of the past week he has _seen_ her, yes, but the odds have been set against them in the sense that a meeting such as the one in his quarters or even the one in the library has been made impossible by circumstances beyond their control. Always there was somebody else demanding their attention, someone else's watchful eyes stopping them from acting around one another as they would have liked to do.

Once, only once, Fíli surprised them both by pulling Sigrid into a little alcove, hidden behind a large marble statue, on their way down to the entrance hall after one of Sigrid's visits with Óin. There had been no one in sight and before Fíli could change his mind, he grabbed Sigrid's hand firmly in his and gave a sharp tug, prompting her to follow him into that little hiding place.

Time had not been wasted with unnecessary words then, for words they had exchanged plenty over the past few days. It was each other's touch that they craved, and so it was without hesitation that Fíli brought his lips to Sigrid's, pulling her flush against him in the cramped space. He sighed with satisfaction when she raised her arms to wrap around his neck, deepening their kiss with as much confidence as if they had been doing this their whole lives and not just a bare handful of times.

"I've missed this," Sigrid whispered between kisses, "I've missed _you._"

Fíli, in too much of a hurry to feel her lips against his once more, merely grunted his assent to her words. He took a small step forward and pushed Sigrid against the wall at her back, pulling back almost immediately to apologize for acting so very boldly.

Sigrid, however, would have none of that and crushed her mouth to his again immediately, trapping him against her body by raising one leg to wrap it around his hip.

A gasp rushed from Fíli's lips at that and he felt heat rise in his cheeks, knowing that in this position Sigrid would be more than aware of his by now very prominent arousal. She did not recoil, by far not, and his grasp onto his self-control wavered rather fiercely when she urged him to press himself against her more firmly by flexing her leg a little.

They broke apart both breathing heavily and as Fíli gazed up into Sigrid's face, he found her cheeks flushed with embarrassment and her eyes wide with insecurity. At the same time, however, she had a look of resolution about her that made his heart beat even faster in his chest. She wanted him. He could not exactly fathom why, nor was it, in all likelihood, a very wise thing for her to do, but she did want him and would not let anything hold her back. And by Durin's beard, he wanted her at least as much.

Despite the thrill that this realization sent through his veins, he managed to pull away from her then. Whatever their little tryst might lead to – this was not the time and, more importantly, not the place for it. Sigrid sighed in displeasure when he released his rather firm grip onto her, but let him go nevertheless, her own arms loosening their embrace. Her hands slid down his arms until they rested in his, her slim fingers curling into his larger palm. It felt nice to hold onto her like this, to feel her place her trust that he would never do anything to harm her in him.

He wanted to tell her that he wished it did not have to be like this, that she deserved more. That someone like her ought to be wooed and cherished for the whole world to see instead of being hidden away and all but ravished in dark corners. Before he found the words to do so, however, she silenced him with a finger against his lips.

"I've told you, it is enough for me. For now, it is enough."

He stared at her, stunned into a baffled silence by her apparent ability to read him like an open book. He searched her eyes for any indication that she might be putting on a brave face just for his sake but found nothing except honesty and determination there. He nodded, pressing a soft kiss against her fingertip.

"For now," he promised, vowing to himself that he _would _find a way to make her his.

They left their hiding place soon after that, seeing that one thing could only ever read to another if they lingered any longer. That was three days ago. He has seen her since then, yes, but he has not touched her, has not been able to reassure himself that all of this is not some cruel delusion of his aside from the twinkle in her eyes and the rosy blush of her cheeks whenever they meet. And that tortures him more than he ever would have expected it to do, longing for someone else's company aside from that of his brother having been a foreign concept to him for the majority of his life.

He sinks back even further into the waters of the lakes below Erebor. Fantastic. In addition to his anxiety over Kíli, he has now managed to work himself into quite the state over his most recent encounter with Sigrid, his body thrumming with excitement at the mere thought of her touch, begging for some semblance of release.

He feels ashamed of himself as he reaches below the water's surface, his right hand closing around his hardened lenght. Utterly unable to stop himself, he imagines Sigrid's hands in place of his own and his head falls back, a shaky groan issuing forth from his lips as he jerks his hand down, once, twice, three times, his hips bucking up against his closed fist.

His soft cry echoes through the empty caverns when the tension in his abdomen finally uncoils, his limbs trembling from the force of his release.

You pathetic excuse for a Dwarf, he scolds himself, lusting after a lass like a pubescent lad barely in control of his body.

And yet he cannot stop a small grin from tugging at the corners of his mouth as he allows himself a few blissful moments where he imagines how it would actually feel to cross this boundary with Sigrid, for them both to give into what their bodies so obviously crave. There are a great many things wrong with fantasizing about that, he's well aware, but that does not change the feelings of warmth and, yes, _rightness_ that course through him. He'll just have to be patient, he tells himself.

But alas, if only he were better at that.

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

Fíli gets a reprieve from that hated necessity of patience much sooner than he would have expected. That same evening, about half an hour after he has returned from dinner, there is a knock on his door that catches him by surprise. Business for that day has been dealt with (or so he thought) and he was just about to settle down in his favorite chair with a glass of brandy and the book of children's tales Sigrid gave to him all those months ago.

He shoves the book under a cushion when three sharp raps on his door sound through his rooms, not wanting any surprise visitors to think him a fool that sits around reading bedtime stories when he has a kingdom to reign. Since he knows both Balin and Dwalin to be engaged otherwise, he does not call out to his visitor to enter as he usually does, but heads to the door instead, reluctantly wrenching it open.

The hallway outside lies mostly in shadow and the small rectangle of light streaming from his open door reveals Thad, wearing a grin on his lips that is so gleeful it almost makes him look a little mad.

"Yes?" Fíli asks cautiously, trying to remember if he has maybe agreed to meet the brothers after dinner and forgotten about it.

"A special delivery for Your Majesty," Thad says as he sweeps into an exaggerated, deep bow.

The confused frown on Fíli's forehead deepens as Thad steps aside, looking over his shoulder into the shadows. Confusion quickly gives way to disbelief when a cloaked figure steps into the light, pulling back the large hood covering her head and a good portion of her face. The curls tumbling forward at the action gleam golden in the firelight and as he catches sight of the rather self-conscious smile that tilts her lips, Fíli feels his heart speed up.

"Sigrid? What are you—"

"Let's not waste time on long explanations, shall we?" Thad interjects and gives Sigrid a gentle push. "Go on then, lassie. And remember – just after dawn, down by the stables."

Sigrid nods solemnly, her cheeks pink even in the dim light. Fíli looks from her to Thad and back again in alarm. "He _knows_?"

Before Sigrid can open her mouth to reply, Thad huffs. "Of course I know. Didn't take a genius to figure it out with you walking the halls with that sappy smile on your face and her being all flustered and blushing constantly for no apparent reason when Flad and I took her back to Dale the other day. But don't worry—" he winks at Fíli who can only stare at him in astonishment "—neither Flad nor I shall breathe a word of this to anyone. I fact, we thought our assistance might prove to be rather... _useful._"

Fíli continues to stare mutely at his kinsman, then shifts his gaze to Sigrid who squirms a little on her spot under his scrutiny. "We— I mean, I— or should I say—" She gives up then, her cheeks coloring while she gives a small shrug. "It has been so difficult for us to meet that the brothers' plan to smuggle me up here seemed like the only way you and I could see each other without... _being_ seen. I—I'm sorry if the surprise is unwelcome."

Practically scrambling to take her hand in his, Fíli tugs her a little closer to the threshold of his room. "It's not. Of course it's not." He turns to Thad, his gaze cunning even as his heart beats more quickly than usual in his chest. "I assume this plan of yours takes certain contingencies into account?"

Thad's answering grin lights up his whole face. "Aye, it does. Anyone who feels compelled to seek out the King in his quarters tonight shall find themselves confronted with a very powerful distraction."

"Let's hope it does not come to that," Fíli returns, his eyebrows raised as he wills his mind not to imagine what sort of madness the brothers might have come up with.

Thad shrugs rather cheerfully. "I heartily disagree, but that is not for you to worry about." Two more exaggerated bows, one for Fíli and one for Sigrid. "Goodnight then, my lord, my lady."

And with that Thad's flaxen head disappears down the hallway, leaving its other two occupants to stare after him in a sort of horrified amusement. Once Thad has vanished from view, Fíli turns to Sigrid, gently squeezing her fingers.

"Won't you come inside then? Before this whole, elaborate scheme is ruined by us lingering out here for too long."

Sigrid nods, turning her hand in his so that their fingers are entwined, but says nothing, silently following him into his quarters. She's been there before, obviously, but still this feels like uncharted territory and so, when Fíli pulls the door shut behind him, there's a nervous flutter in his stomach.

Then the realization that they will be spending the entire night together sinks in and he almost yanks open that door once more to call back Thad. He doesn't, of course, because Sigrid is right. It's close to impossible for them to have some time together and if this – at night and in secret – is the only way he can see her, well... Then he'll simply have to behave himself. Even if breathing has suddenly become rather more difficult.

He releases his hold onto Sigrid's hand and instantly regrets it, for now he has nothing to do with his own hands, his fingers twitching nervously. With some relief he notices that the fire in his hearth is burning low and he heads over to take some logs from the basket placed beside it and adds them to the fire, watching as the flames devour the wood hungrily.

"Those brothers," he remarks in a pitiful attempt at light conversation while still keeping his back turned to her, "have their heads full of mischief. I hope they did not offend you with their meddling."

"Not at all," Sigrid says softly, her voice behind him much closer than he expected it to be. A not entirely unpleasant shiver runs up his spine. "I find myself growing rather fond of them. Also, if I'm not mistaken, they very much resemble another pair of brothers."

Fíli barely suppresses a flinch at her words, waiting for the familiar twinge in his gut that is usually provoked by any mention of Kíli. It doesn't come and he realizes with no small amount of surprise that he does not mind for Sigrid to speak of his brother, knowing that with her he does not have to pretend that the wound Kíli's absence from his life has torn into his very soul is not still raw and open.

He turns, a weak, wistful smile on his lips. "You are right about that, of course." He looks up at her, not bothering to hide his grief. "I forget sometimes that you knew Kíli as well. Everything before the battle seems... seems so terribly long ago. Like another life, almost."

"I did not know him nearly as well as I now wish I had and those days were marked by chaos and tragedy," Sigrid returns, her eyes and her voice earnest. Then she gives a small smile. "But I did see a little of what it must have been like between you two. Enough to venture a guess that Thad and Flad's little schemes pale in comparison to what you and Kíli would come up with."

Genuine laughter bubbles up in his chest at that and he takes her hands in his to press a kiss to her knuckles. "You might have a point there," he says. He barely lifts his lips from her skin as he utters those words and when he feels her shudder as his breath rushes across the back of her hands the air between them becomes charged with a sudden tension.

His memories of bygone times fade into the background as he turns one of her hands over in his, pressing a kiss to the inside of her wrist. Keeping his eyes on her face, he watches her eyelids flutter and her lips part slightly as a silent gasp escapes them. A small grin tugs at his lips and he repeats his actions, reveling in the silky softness and the sweet scent of her skin.

He releases her hand eventually and steps a little closer still, reaching up to cup her lovely face between his palms. Yes, he has made a silent promise that he will behave himself, but he has to make some use of the fact that he has her all to himself in his room, doesn't he? And so he hesitates only briefly before leaning up to press his mouth to hers, exhaling with relief when finally – finally! – the taste of her floods him, fills him, completes him.

Sigrid's hands come up to rest against his shoulders, sliding around to clutch at his back as their kiss deepens. The fire burning in the hearth at his back is beginning to feel dangerously hot and he stirs them both away from it. His refusal to break their kiss results in both of them stumbling a bit, their noses bumping against each other as they struggle to maintain both their balance and the contact between their bodies.

A giggle escapes Sigrid's lips and then a small yelp as the backs of her knees hit his bed and they both end up tumbling onto it, him on top of her. Fíli pulls away to apologize for crushing her beneath him, but then the impact of their change in positions fully registers with him and his words fail him. Lying on top of her, the whole weight of his body pinning hers against the mattress, turns out to be a wholly different sensation from merely pressing himself _against_ her. He can feel every curve of her body, every soft rounding, every tense muscle, and as she arches her back ever so slightly, molding herself to him, a considerable portion of his self-control waves him a cheery goodbye.

Pushing himself up on his elbows, Fíli crushes his mouth to Sigrid's once more and she welcomes him by reaching up to run her fingers through his already rather mussed hair, tugging him impossibly closer. Things become a little hazy after that and Fíli has no way of knowing if minutes pass in this manner or hours. When next he succeeds at forming a coherent thought, several items of his clothing have mysteriously disappeared, as has Sigrid's vest. Also, her blouse is unbottoned halfway and Fíli's fingers are stroking her collarbone, his thumb just barely brushing the gentle swell of her breast.

He pulls back his hand like he has been burned and struggles to sit up, finally managing to perch himself above Sigrid in an awkward, kneeling pose. She stares up at him with wide eyes that are darkened by the same kind of need he feels pulsing through him, her lips red and swollen from his kisses. He almost throws himself onto her again right that second.

"We have to stop," he pants instead, his lungs curiously devoid of air. "We have to stop – before we do something that you might come to regret."

"I won't," Sigrid says immediately, reaching up to pull him back down to her.

Fíli is tempted, so very tempted, to follow her invitation, but forces himself to further disentangle his limbs from hers, sitting down on the mattress beside her. Sigrid pushes up onto her elbows and looks at him with raised eyebrows. Fíli finds that he can barely meet her gaze, afraid that if he does, the untamed beast that has been woken inside his chest will take charge once more, the need to somehow claim her, make her his and his alone, shocking him with its intensity.

"I—" he begins, but words fail him once again and as he stares at his hands he notices that they are shaking, visibly. He clenches them into fists. "If we don't stop now, I won't be able to hold myself back much longer," he says, more than a little ashamed of himself to be forced to admit to those rather savage needs of his.

"Good," Sigrid says firmly and his eyes shift to her in surprise. She, too, is sitting up now, facing him. Her face is flushed and he can see her whole body tremble with— well, he's not sure of that exactly. Fear? Arousal? Or both, maybe? Still, her eyes are calm and determined. "Because I don't want you to hold back."

The realization what she is asking him to do hits him like a punch to his gut, making it almost impossible to breathe. At the same time, the throbbing in his loins becomes almost painful. Still, he shakes his head. "No. We—we can't. I won't do this to you. I won't—I won't _spoil_ you."

Sigrid gives a strange little laugh at that. "Spoil me? For whom, exactly?" She shifts closer and her smile turns from sardonic to gentle as she lifts a hand to his burning cheek. "I have told you before. It's only ever been you. And that is not going to change."

He closes his eyes, the sincerity in her gaze combined with her words threatening to drive him to do something reckless. "Still... we cannot," he says, his voice sounding feeble to his own ears. "It's—it wouldn't be right."

There's as rustle of fabric and Fíli starts with surprise when one of Sigrid's legs slides across his thigh, her warmth enveloping him as she comes to sit astride him. He is suddenly very glad for his... _activities_ from earlier that day, feeling rather confident that he would have fainted from the sheer force of his excitement had he not gotten rid of some of the tension beforehand.

Sigrid's hands cup his jaw and she tilts his face towards hers, her breath ghosting over his lips as she speaks, lowering her voice to a whisper. "How could this be wrong when it feels so very, very right?" A feather-light kiss brushed across his mouth and an infinitesimal roll of her hips that has him expel the air from his lungs in a shuddering gasp. "Do you not feel that?"

He finally opens his eyes again, his gaze locking onto hers. He can see in her own eyes that she is determined to be brave, to speak her mind, but the flicker of fear does not excape his notice as well. Fear of being rejected. Fear of getting hurt. He feels his resolve waver and when she leans down to kiss him, he does not hold back, opening himself to her when she begins to explore him with her tongue.

She takes both of his hands in hers and guides one back to her waist, silently asking him to hold her more firmly against him. The other hand she raises between their bodies, returning it to its former position on the expanse of bare skin revealed by her open blouse. His heart threatens to jump out of his chest as she steers his hand a little further down, releasing her hold onto him only for a split second to undo another button. And then her fingers are on top of his as he cups one perfect, firm breast in his palm, her back arching as she pushes up against him, daring him to touch her.

"Please," she breathes.

His breath hitches in his throat when he feels her hardened peak grace the pad of his thumb and her small cry when he gives it an experimental little flick nearly undoes him. Admitting to himself that he does not have the kind of strength it takes to step away from this, he forms a new resolution in his mind, a wicked grin tugging at his lips.

Holding her firmly in his lap, he turns them both around, pushing her back against the mattress once more. As he leans over her lets his lips trail the curve of her jaw while he continues teasing her nipple with his thumb.

"I won't give you what you are asking for," he says between kisses. Before Sigrid can protest, he adds, "but I will give you something else."

Before he can change his mind and lose his courage, he removes his hand from her breast to undo the remaining buttons of her blouse, pushing the garment off her shoulders once he has done so. His lips leave the side of her neck to kiss a trail down across her collarbone while he uses his other hand to hoist up her skirts, his breath growing more shallow as he allows his fingers to stroke the soft skin of her thighs.

Sigrid gives a startled gasp when he moves his hand further up her leg with a very clear destination and he raises his head to look at her, silently asking if this is going too far, if she has changed her mind after all. She looks at him with wide eyes, her teeth leaving marks in her bottom lip. She gives a small but steady nod, willing him to continue, a wish with which he eagerly obliges.

Commited to his task, he makes swift business of her underthings, tugging them down and off her legs in one, fluent motion. He trails his fingers back up her legs again immediately, his need to explore her nearly overwhelming. She flinches at the first contact of his fingers with her most sensitive flesh, but the iron grip of her hands onto his shoulders assures him that this is what she wants.

His first explorations are gentle, his fingertips tracing her folds, circling her entrance. He finds her flesh slick, swollen with need and he barely bites back a groan as he realizes that this need is for him alone. Sigrid arches into his touch, her hips jerking as he increases the pressure of his fingers, finding the small spot he knows will give her pleasure beyond anything else.

He rubs at her flesh, suppressing the instinct to slip a finger into her, afraid that doing so might hurt her. Instead, he focuses on finding a rhythm that will bring her closer and closer to the brink of that sweetest kind of oblivion. His efforts are rewarded with soft moans that quickly grow breathier, Sigrid's chest rising and falling rapidly against his own body. This gives him an idea and he scoots a little further down on his mattress, pulling one of her hardened, rosy peaks between his lips and sucking gently.

Sigrid's back arches off the bed as she cries out and one of her hands fists in his hair. Spurned on by her reaction, Fíli sucks again, harder this time, and feels her fall apart underneath his hands, her hips bucking violently against his fingers. She has tuned her face to one side, burying it in his blankets, but still her cry of pleasure is loud enough for Fíli to be glad of the fact that Thad promised to keep potential visitors far away from his quarters for the remainder of the night.

Her body now limp beneath his while her breaths still come in ragged gasps, Sigrid gives a feeble tug on his hair, urging him up until he comes to lie next to her on his side, his thumb still rubbing small circles on the soft skin of her lower belly while she gathers her composure.

"I didn't—I never—That was—" She heaves a small sigh and gives up on finding the right words entirely, pulling him down to her for a languid kiss instead.

When they break apart, Fíli cannot stop a smug grin from spreading across his lips. "I assume that was to your taste, then? Even if it was not what you asked for."

Her bright laughter rings through his otherwise silent room. "Oh, I'll take it and shan't complain about it, don't you worry."

She kisses him again and Fíli is surprised to find some heat return to the touch of her lips against his. He pulls away by a few inches, raising a quizzical eyebrow at her.

The flush in her cheeks returning with full force, Sigrid gives a small shrug and an abashed grin while her fingers fiddle with the gaping neckline of his shirt. "Won't you let me return the favor?" she asks, her words emphasized by her hand slowly trailing downward until her fingertips shyly brush against the very obvious bulge in his trousers.

He shudders as her touch sends a spark of desire through his veins. "You don't have to," he says, feeling that maybe they have gone far enough for tonight.

Sigrid kisses him again while her nimble fingers begin to work on the fastenings of his trousers. "I want to," she mumbles against his lips and then, after a pause, "Show me how?"

He wants to protest, wants to do at least one honorable thing on this very strange evening, but her hand is already pushing layers of fabric out of the way and then she's touching him with no barrier between them and it just feels exquisite. She's running her fingers along his length and if he thought that he could not get any harder, he has just been proven wrong.

"Show me," she whispers again and wraps her hand lightly around his manhood.

Fíli's head falls forward against her collarbone and he groans, once more overpowered by her. He wonders if he should be made uneasy by how quickly she has regained control of the situation after he reduced her to a gasping, trembling mess just moments ago. As things stand, it only serves to get him even more excited.

Following her plea, he reaches down between their bodies and covers her small hand with his larger one, slightly adjusting her hold onto him. He moves their joined hands, guiding her both in terms of speed and pressure. It's a oddly intimate experience to be doing this together with her and Fíli knows that even if this had not been going on for as long as it already has, he would not last very long.

Barely able to form a coherent thought, he watches in dumb fascination as Sigrid relinquishes her hold onto his biceps, trailing her unoccupied hand across her own stomach instead. She cups and kneads her still bared breast, rolling her nipple between her thumb and her forefinger, and a small moan escapes her lips. The realization that just the act of touching him makes her feel this way, makes her crave _more_, does it for him.

"I can't—I'm going to—," he pants, stars exploding behind his now closed eyelids. He furtively tries to jerk his hips away, but it's no use and he spills himself into both their hands with a groan that echoes through his chambers.

His head falls forward to rest against Sigrid's shoulder as he trembles with the aftershocks of his release. "Forgive me," he mutters, "I—I did not mean to—"

"There is nothing to forgive at all," Sigrid assures him and when he dares lift his head to look at her, her finds not the reproach or the disgust he feared he might, but only warmth and contentment.

He leans down to capture her lips with his, letting his mouth linger on hers for a moment before pushing himself off the mattress. "Wait here," he says and rises to move across the room, feeling her eyes on him all the while.

He returns to her side with a damp washcloth, running it first over her brow and then down her neck, ridding her skin of their combined sweat. Moving onto her hands, he wipes them clean, feeling less guilty once any trace of his seed has been removed from her. He quickly washes himself next, exchanging his soiled trousers for a clean pair.

Sigrid's gaze follows him during all of this, a small, relaxed smile playing around her lips. Neither of them speaks, but it's not a strained silence. There is much that could be said, obviously, but that can wait, Fíli figures. For now, he just wants to enjoy the time he has left with her.

Climbing back into his bed once he is finished, Fíli scoots back until his shoulders rest against the headboard, pulling Sigrid with him by her hand. She follows his invitation and sighs happily once she is nestled against his side, her head resting on his chest. He can feel her breath against the bare skin revealed by his open shirt collar and he wraps an arm around her shoulders, holding her more firmly to him.

Her breathing evens out as the fire in his hearth slowly burns down and Fíli presses a soft kiss to the top of her head, silently bidding her goodnight. He won't sleep, not if he can help it. Dawn is merely a few hours away and who can say when he will have another chance to have her all to himself for a whole night. No, he shall watch over her tonight, marveling at the fire she has lit in his heart when not so long ago he thought he was condemned to forever walk in darkness.


	21. Day 128

Day 128

"Ered Luin."

"I'm sorry, what?"

On the one hundred twenty-eighth day, Fíli straightens up from where he has been leaning over a scroll of parchment with impossibly small writing on it. If things progress like this, he'll need some sort of reading aid before he turns ninety, which would be beyond embarrassing. Behold, Fíli the Bespectacled.

He shrugs off that distracting thought and turns to Balin, raising a quizzical eyebrow at his companion.

"Ered Luin," the older Dwarf repeats. "We need to encourage the clans still residing there to join us here. It is the only strategy I can think of that would strengthen us both in numbers and in spirit – now that other means to obtain this goal have been ruled out."

Fíli ignores the jab at his refusal to marry for political gain. "There aren't that many of our people still living there," he says. "Those that are, are mostly the older generations. Hardly a group of people to build an army from, if that is what you have in mind."

Even though he knows it to be necessary in the long run, just the thought of forming an army sickens Fíli. Doing so would mean acknowledging that there will be more battles in the years to come. Battles like the one that got Thorin and, probably, Kíli killed.

"Don't underestimate the value of having your elders close by," Balin chastises him, but there is no venom in his voice. He knows Fíli's thoughts on the matter and is familiar with some of the fears that his young king suffers. "But even if they were useless to us in a fight, just having them here would indubitably strengthen us. If they come, others will, too. And we will finally be able to build the kingdom we have dreamt of for so long."

"I thought things were going rather well," Fíli comments, trying and failing to not feel criticized by Balin's assessment.

"And they are," Balin assures him hurriedly. "But we still have a long way to go and are wasting too much time with insignificant matters. To have more Dwarves who lived when Erebor was reigned by your great-grandfather join the council would surely help those who are less experienced put their differences to rest."

Fíli cannot deny the truth in that. Just yesterday the council spent a whole afternoon arguing about potatoes. Potatoes! You'd think that besides the question whether to boil or roast them, everyone would be perfectly happy as long as there _are _potatoes to be boiled or roasted. Well, it turns out they're not, the matters of growing, harvesting and consuming potatoes astonishingly full of sources of discord.

So, yes, the wisdom of the older generations regarding both potato-related and other matters would certainly be appreciated. Still, Fíli has his qualms about Balin's proposal.

"And what is to become of the Blue Mountains? If we move all the population here, who will tend to the fields, the livestock, the mines? I know it isn't Erebor, but what our people have built there over the years has its value, too."

He and Kíli were born there, for Mahal's sake. Are they supposed to let it all fall into ruin?

"Ered Luin would make a valuable outpost in the West," Balin amends. "But an outpost is all it should be – currently, there are dozens of families still living there. If you do not count the ones who still have their homes in the Iron Hills and only come here for trade, the population of Erebor is scarcely larger than that of the Blue Mountains. That is unacceptable if we want the clans distributed across Middle Earth to look to Erebor – to _you _– for guidance."

Fíli isn't completely sure whether it really is such a great idea for them to do so, but he's accepted the crown and will have to come to terms with this responsibility. He sighs. "Fine. I see your point. How do you propose to go about bringing those families here, though? If they have not been convinced by now that we truly are building a future for all of us at Erebor, how can we change their minds?"

Balin leans back in his chair and folds his hands across his stomach. "Dís is the key here, I believe. If she joins us, the others will follow."

Fíli rubs his forefinger across his upper lip a couple of times, lost in thought. "I am uncertain if she is ready," he finally says, thinking of the rather somber letters he has received from his mother in the recent past, her grief over Thorin and Kíli tangible even in her happier accounts of life in the Blue Mountains.

"She will come if you ask her to," Balin says softly, interrupting his thoughts. "You are not only her king, but also her son. If you need her, she'll come."

Balin's arguments are sound. Of course they are. Still, that does not make the lump in Fíli's throat even remotely easier to swallow. "We did agree, though, that it would be wise for her to stay so that she can manage things," he reminds Balin.

"Aye, we did. But if the families abandon Ered Luin, there won't be an awful lot left to manage. I say we dispatch members of the guard to move over there, enough to keep the place running. Assign them to this task for a year, perhaps, and then send others to replace them, so they won't feel cast out."

"It sounds as if you have put a lot of thought into it already," Fíli comments, examining his hands to avoid meeting the steely determination he expects he'll find in his companion's gaze.

Balin shrugs. "You did ask me for a new plan. This is it."

"Fine." Fíli leans forward in his seat with a sigh, his elbows resting on his knees. "Say we have Glorin select a number of men who are up for the task and send them to Ered Luin. What if Dís and the others refuse to abandon their homes and undertake that journey east? We can hardly take them by force and drag them here, like prisoners."

"That will not be necessary," Balin returns. "They won't refuse, because you will be there to convince them that this is the best course of action. They will follow their king."

Fíli swallows, his throat closing with sudden panic. "You want me to go as well?"

"Aye. Nothing could send as strong a message as the king himself traveling such a great distance on behalf of his people. You will guide them, lead them on this journey. After that, I'd wager, they will be prepared to follow you anywhere, both figuratively and literally."

Balin is a picture of confidence and calmness as he speaks. Fili, meanwhile, struggles to keep a tremor out of his voice when he responds.

"What of Erebor? I cannot simply abandon my throne. We are talking about a long journey here. Even if we do not run into trouble on the way, it will be—what? Two months? Three?"

"I admit that it bears certain risks for you to be absent from your kingdom for so long. But I believe those are risks worth taking."

Fíli stares at his hands again, not knowing what to say. He is a drowning man surrounded by pieces of driftwood that the current is carrying out of his reach. Balin is right, of course. He always is. But that does not change the fact that the mere thought of following through with this new plan fills Fíli with dread like cold water flooding his lungs.

He forces himself to look up again and finds Balin studying him carefully. "This is, as always, merely my advice," the older Dwarf says. "It is you who makes the decision. I know that you have certain... _reservations _when it comes to a reunion with Dís. I do believe, however, that it is time for you to set those aside. Not even to mention that I think any fears you might still harbor to be unnecessary."

Fíli nods, slowly. There is a point to Balin's observation, but of course his most trusted advisor could never grasp the full spectrum of his reluctance to travel to Ered Luin.

Yes, some of those feelings of dread originate in his doubts over whether he is ready to undertake this journey that will end with him facing Dís after such a long separation. To stand before her all by himself, without Kíli and Thorin.

Far more potent than that, however, is his fear of what traveling all across Middle Earth and back would do to what has blossomed between him and Sigrid. Could she ever forgive him if he were to abandon her, now, when he is in no position to make her any promises as to what will become of them when (and _if__, _because, let's face it, there are millions of ways to die on such a journey) he returns? The thought that he might have to sever the bond between them so soon after he finally stopped being a coward for long enough to acknowledge it, nearly cripples him with heartache.

A chime of the clock on his mantelpiece interrupts the evasive reply to Balin's words that has begun to form on his tongue. Three strikes. Fuck.

Balin raises an eyebrow when Fíli goes rigid in his chair, his lower lip twitching involuntarily as he turns his head to confirm with a glance at the clock that the afternoon really has progressed this far already.

"Do you have somewhere to be?"

He does, but Balin is not supposed to know that. He was hoping that their meeting would be long over by now and that he would have some time left to prepare for another, much more highly anticipated rendezvous.

Turning to face Balin, Fíli quickly schools his features into an expression of indifference. "Not if we still have matters to discuss. I was going to meet Thad at the stables, but that can wait."

His heart sags with relief when Balin gives a small shake of his head and rises from his chair. "No. Go ahead and meet your friend. Sometimes a bit of distraction can help with finding more clarity on the things that matter. I confess that I am a little surprised, though, to hear that the brothers do appear to lead separate lives. I thought them pretty much attached at the hip."

Fíli suppress a wince. Flad has gone to Dale in order to assist Sigrid in leaving the city unnoticed so that she can meet with him. But he can hardly tell Balin that.

"Flad has taken a fancy to one of the kitchen maids, it seems. If I had to guess, I would say that he is currently spending more time in storage rooms and broom closets than with his brother." This is mostly true and so Fíli does not feel quite as bad about lying to Balin.

The older Dwarf chuckles. "Ah, to be young again." He leans down to gather some papers from the low table. "I shall leave you to it, then. We can speak more tomorrow."

Fíli inclines his head in agreement, the gesture successfully hiding the slight frown on his forehead. He has a lot to think about, it seems.

He waits until Balin has pulled the door shut behind him and then hurries over to his dresser, picking up his coat on the way. While he dresses quickly, he tries his best not to lose himself too deeply in the ruminations on what following through with Balin's plan would mean. Still, his mood is by far not as bright as it ought to be as he hurries down to the stables a few minutes later.

He pulls on his gloves as he climbs down the steps that take him not to the main gate, but to the smaller, concealed entrance which opens unto a series of wooden structures that house the ponies and an ever growing amount of livestock.

Thad – Mahal be thanked for his dedication to his task – is already awaiting Fíli with the reins of his saddled pony in his hands, shifting from one foot onto the other impatiently. The young Dwarf's eyes light up when he catches sight of his king.

"There you are! I was beginning to think I had gotten the time all wrong."

"You did not," Fíli assures him. "I was held up. Thank you for waiting."

"Always," Thad returns, and his easy acceptance of Fíli's rather brief explanation for his tardiness warms a remote place in Fíli's heart. For all his habitual banter, Thad is extremely sincere when it comes to their friendship. "Let's not waste any more time then," the blond Dwarf says and hands Fíli the reins. "Off to Dale with you. I shall be waiting for you when you return."

To avoid any suspicion among the other Dwarves if they were to see Thad wandering about by himself when he is supposed to be on an outing with his king, the plan is for Thad to remain in the stables until Fíli gets back. There's always plenty to do around there and, thankfully, Thad rather enjoys tending to the animals, so this won't be much of a burden for him.

"Thank you," Fíli says again once he has mounted his pony and is prepared to set off towards Dale. "I hope you won't find waiting for me too tedious."

Thad winks. "If I run out of work I can always pay a visit to Dana," he says and jerks his head into the direction of the chicken coop where the young Dwarf woman in charge of the birds is currently collecting eggs with a large basket hanging from her arm. She notices Thad's gaze and smiles, a rather fierce blush creeping up her neck.

"Just make sure that you don't traumatize those chickens," Fíli calls over his shoulder as he directs his pony towards the outer gate. "It would be a shame to not have any eggs for breakfast tomorrow."

Thad's laughter follows him out of the gates. He rides swiftly, keeping away from the main road that connects Erebor and Dale. The warm, fragrant air of spring fills him, elates him, and he can almost forget, for a moment, the worries that are gnawing away at his heart.

Plant life has reclaimed the desolation left behind by Smaug's reign with a viciousness that defies all natural law, as if the demise of the dragon has lifted a curse off those lands surrounding the mountain. Large patches of gorse and heather cover the smaller hills at the base of the Lonely Mountain, coloring the previously barren lands so vividly that it's almost baffling. Grass and thorny weeds have claimed the ground in between and although there are no trees as of yet, one cannot help but be confident that the many tiny saplings will grow into sturdy stems before long.

Today, Fíli does not pay much heed to the spectacle nature puts on display before him. He knows he is rather late for their meeting already and the hope that Sigrid is still waiting for him causes him to dig his heels more firmly into Arran's flanks, urging the pony to quicken his steps. Since their little mishap from a few weeks ago, the animal has attached itself exclusively to Fíli. He is grateful for this loyalty, now, for it allows him to push Arran to his limits without having to fear resistance on the animal's part.

They reach the derelict guard house outside the city walls in a cloud of dust whirled up by the speed of Arran's approach. The house seems as abandoned as on the evening when he came across it after his disastrous trip to Ravenhill and for a dreadful moment Fíli is convinced that Sigrid has already left. He all but jumps off Arran's back and rushes around the small building to almost smack face-first into Sigrid as she exits the house through the hole in the wall that was once a door.

She's heard him arrive, of course, but still she manages a surprised squeal when he nearly knocks her over and puts her hands on his shoulders to steady herself.

"Whatever is the matter?" she laughs as he makes use of their position and firmly pulls her against him with his arms wrapped around her waist.

He takes a moment to press his face into her soft hair and simply inhale her scent. Then he proceeds to press a series of soft kisses against the side of her neck. "I thought I had come too late," he mutters between those kisses, "that maybe you had gone back already. I was held up at the mountain – a feeble excuse, I know."

"And yet I accept it," she returns, leaning back in his embrace so that she can have a better look at him. "You are here now, so there is no harm done. Besides, it is not as if I have anywhere else to be."

He returns her gentle smile before leaning up to capture her lips between his. It has been too long. Five days since he last saw her, tasted her, and already he can feel his self-control slip, his greedy heart wanting more of her, now. How would he be able to go months without seeing her?

In the end it is Sigrid who breaks their kiss with a small sigh of contentment. Her hands come up to brush across his brow, his forehead, tracing the contours of his face. "Something troubles you, still," she states after a moment or two, watching with a concerned frown of her own as he leans his head into one of her palms, seeking more of her warmth. "Tell me, please."

He looks at her, purses his lips. Then he gives a small shake of his head. "Not now." He just wants to be with her, to be able to look at her lovely face without seeing the disappointment those latest developments are sure to bring. "We can speak more of it later," he assures her. "But first we ought to get out of here. It's a little too close to the city, if you ask me."

He has given up on complaining to her about the danger of being found out by her father. Her repeated assurances that she has her ways of coming and going without Bard taking notice of her absence appear to hold true for Fíli has not yet received any death threats from the Bowman. Still, putting a little distance between themselves and the King of Dale cannot hurt.

There is a teasing glint in Sigrid's eyes, but she does not call him out on his paranoia. "Where would you like to go?" she asks instead.

"There is a lovely spot a few miles down the river," he answers. "The water is quiet there and it's practically hidden from view."

She frowns. "A couple of miles? It will be dark before we reach it."

Amused, he takes her hand in his, leading her around the small building to where his pony is munching happily on a patch of tall grass. "We'll ride, of course. Arran will have no trouble carrying us both. He's quite strong."

Sigrid eyes the animal with hesitation shining in her eyes. Arran looks up at them and tosses his head back sharply as if to say that he accepts the challenge. Fíli feels Sigrid flinch against his side and it occurs to him that she does not know how to ride.

"Forgive me," he says, turning her so that they are facing each other. "If I had known that this would make you uncomfortable, I wouldn't have—"

"No. It's quite alright," she cuts him off and, after a brief, reassuring squeeze of his hand, turns away from him to take a shy step towards Arran. "We did not have much use for horses or ponies at Lake-town, so I am not terribly familiar with them. My parents took me riding, once, on the shores of the lake. I was quite young still – Tilda wasn't even born yet. I'm afraid I don't remember much of it. Just the wind in my hair."

Fíli steps up close to her from behind, reaching down to take her hand in his. He raises her arm to place her hand against the side of Arran's neck, the animal's shiny, chestnut fur still damp with sweat after their swift journey from Erebor to Dale. "Would you like to feel that again?" he whispers into her ear, following the movement of her hand as she runs it down the pony's muscular neck.

It's a perfectly innocent question, but still a thrill runs through him when she leans back into his embrace. "I would," she says, her voice breathy with excitement.

Fíli smirks and, releasing her hand, takes a firm hold of her hips. She gasps in surprise when he lifts her, but then draws up one knee instinctively so that he can help her mount Arran in one fluid motion. He does not waste time to join her and hefts himself into the saddle, his front snug against her back. He has noticed before that Sigrid is not much taller than him when sitting down, which he is rather grateful for now, because otherwise riding like this would be a bit awkward. As it is, he reaches around her to take up the reins and, looking over her shoulder, directs Arran's steps away from the derelict building.

At first Sigrid's posture is rather rigid, but bit by bit the tension seeps from her muscles, and she relaxes against Fíli's chest. He has shared a horse before, mostly with Kíli, but the experience has never been as pleasant as this. The way Sigrid's body moves against his is sensual, intimate even, and soon enough he finds that he needs to focus his thoughts elsewhere if he does not want to embarrass them both.

He notices that Sigrid has angled her face to her right, gazing at the dark shape of Mirkwood in the distance.

"Not a place I'd recommend for a holiday," he jokes, pleased when he sees the corner of her mouth quirk upward in response.

"I'd wager as much," she says lightly, but then frowns as a small shudder passes through her. "As a child I used to be terrified of the Elvenking. I had never met him, of course, but the tales we children were told of him... well, suffice to say I woke up sobbing from more than one nightmare about the stern, ageless king."

"He most certainly isn't the most pleasant character," Fíli agrees. "And he definitely does not put great stock in hospitality." He pauses, then grins as a memory of his time in Thranduil's dungeons drifts to the forefront of his mind. "Did I ever tell you about that one time when Thorin told the Elvenking that he would... well, forgive me, for there is no elegant way to say this... shit on his head and the heads of his entire family?"

Sigrid clasps a hand to her mouth, her eyes wide as saucers. "He did not!"

"Oh yes, he did." Fíli chuckles, both at the memory and at her shock. "There was no love lost between those two."

Sigrid dissolves into giggles at this blatant understatement and Fíli has to tighten his arms around her to prevent her from slipping off Arran's back. He does not mind doing so one bit. Once she has recovered sufficiently, Sigrid wipes her sleeve across her eyes, a few more quiet laughs shaking her slight frame. "I am very grateful that King Thranduil did not have you all killed after that."

It's a joke, of course, but Fíli holds on to her a little more tightly still, hoping to convey to her that he, too, is glad to have lived through it all, despite everything. With no small amount of surprise, he realizes that that's true. There were times when he wasn't, times when he wished to be laid up beside Thorin's body in the depths of the mountain, but those have passed without him taking notice. Now, all he can think about when he contemplates his own death is that he could not bear the thought of leaving the woman in his arms behind to grieve for him.

Sigrid's eyes have returned to studying the mysterious forest in the west, her tone more somber when she adds, "I find myself thinking about her, sometimes."

He blinks, confused by the turn in their conversation. "Whom do you speak of?"

"Tauriel, of course. I wonder if she returned to her home in the woods. I wonder what has become of her." She turns in his arms and glances at him over her shoulder. "Don't you?"

"I do not spend an awful lot of time reminiscing about Elves," Fíli grumbles, more out of habit than of an actual aversion to the topic.

"She saved your brother's life," Sigrid admonishes gently.

"And I lost him anyway," Fíli mutters. Sigrid's hand covers his at that and he realizes he is being childishly stubborn. He sighs. "I have thought of her," he finally admits. "And of whether she fought in the battle. Whether she survived it."

"I cannot answer the former with certainty, but as for the latter I can say that, yes, she did survive." When Fíli stiffens in surprise behind her, she explains. "Tilda saw her at Dale on the morning after the battle. She was fine then, apparently. A bit confused, according to Tilda, but with my little sister you never know where she gets some of her impressions from."

"Oh," is all Fíli manages, not having expected Sigrid to have more knowledge of the Elf's fate than him. So she did survive. For some reason that knowledge leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. If she still lives and has been at Dale after the battle, then she must know that Kíli is gone. Clearly, she cannot have held him in as high a regard as his little brother hoped she did, if she did not try to find out more about his fate from the last person who had seen Kíli alive – himself.

_It is highly probable that she was in no position to seek you out_, the voice of reason inside of him interjects, but he shoos it away. It is much easier to feel disdain for the Elf who has captured Kíli's heart than to pity her for suffering the same loss he has.

"Kíli... he _cared _about her," he says, unable to keep a certain amount of reproach out of his voice.

"You make that sound as if it were a bad thing."

He takes a moment to consider that. "Maybe not bad, but certainly unusual. Inappropriate."

A pause, during which Sigrid picks at a loose thread at the seam of her sleeve. "Like you and me?"

Fíli straightens up, dismayed by her assertion. "That is different."

"Is it?"

He knows what she is doing, of course. Pushing him, forcing him to confront the things which make him uncomfortable. It angers him, a little, though that anger is not directed at her, but more at the fact that everything always needs to be so bloody complicated and that, once his thoughts start spinning, he cannot seem to make them stop.

"Very much so," he says, trying and failing to keep his tone neutral. "A Dwarf and an Elf, and one of Thranduil's no less..."

He does not finish putting his thoughts into words, but he does not have to. The implications of his words are clear enough. He wishes he could put aside those prejudices he has grown up with, but even if he is nowhere near as full of hate as both Thorin and the Elvenking have repeatedly shown themselves to be, imagining – _truly_ imagining – his brother with an Elf is more than a little difficult. Not that it matters now, for Kíli never got to act on his misguided feelings.

"For what it's worth," Sigrid speaks up in front of him, jarring him from his thoughts, "I do believe that she cared for him as well. I—I could see it in her eyes. Those same feelings that I was beginning to harbor in my heart and that I am only now starting to fully comprehend."

Warmth spreads through his chest at her words, chasing away some of the chill that remembering Kíli's last days has brought. "Really?" he says, a smile stretching his lips. "All this time?"

She ducks her head and though he cannot see her face, he knows that she is blushing. "All this time," she confirms quietly, her fingers curling around his hand where it still holds the reins of his pony.

They don't speak any more after that and Fíli clings gratefully to the bright spark which her words have lit inside of him. If she cared for him even before she truly knew him, back when he was still cocky with confidence and full of adolescent dreams, then maybe she can forgive him after all if he decides to go along with Balin's plan. Maybe what they have does not need fortifying and is strong enough as it is to withstand any storm it might become exposed to.

After another half mile or so he gives a sharp tug on Arran's reins, bringing the pony to a stop with a sharp click of his tongue.

"We're here."

He slides off Arran's back and reaches up to help Sigrid dismount, letting his hands linger on her hips only a bit longer than necessary. Then he takes a step back to allow her to take in the view.

A few feet ahead of them the ground falls away rather steeply towards the river, and there, at the shore of the water, a small, sandy patch of earth is surrounded by a copse of gnarly willow trees, their branches hanging low above the ground. It is not the most impressive place Fíli has ever laid eyes upon, but it radiates a tranquility which he has come to appreciate in the few times he has visited it. Also, it is a place rather unlikely to be found unless you happen to be looking for it.

If Fíli were to guess, he would say that a similar thought has just crossed Sigrid's mind, for she gives him a cheeky grin as she slides her hand into his, allowing him to pull her down the narrow path leading to the riverbank. They reach the seclusion provided by the trees with the sort of breathless laughter only known to mischievous children and secret lovers and proceed to tumble to the ground in a rather graceless heap of limbs that have refused to obey and hands that are eager to touch, to grasp, to hold.

Since that one night in his chambers, Fíli has not had Sigrid to himself without the constant fear that someone might intrude upon them any given moment and all their interactions have been marked by a sort of hurried desperation. Now, he fully intends to use what little time they have left before he must take her back to Dale to make up for those lost opportunities.

Sigrid's laughter echoes through the river valley as he fumbles a bit to sort out their position, but when he finally succeeds at sitting up and pulls her onto his lap, she goes quiet, bracing her hands against his shoulders as he reaches up to cup the back of her head in his hands. He tilts his face up and kisses her, deeply, unhurriedly, for the first time in days. Her lips are soft and pliant beneath his and when he gently nips at the lower one, demanding entrance, they part for him without even a moment's hesitation.

Having lost himself in her taste, her scent, the feeling of her body pressed so intimately against his, Fíli can do little else except gape at her in surprise when Sigrid breaks their kiss unexpectedly and wriggles out of his lap.

"What are you doing?" he asks in a dumbfounded tone while he watches her shrug out of her light coat.

She looks at him over her shoulder, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. "I'm going for a swim."

Again, he can only stare at her as she toes off her ankle-high boots and approaches the water's edge on bare feet. She dips in a toe and, apparently satisfied with what she finds, proceeds to divest herself of her long, woolen skirt. Wearing only her blouse and underskirt, she wades into the water, pausing to lift her face towards the sun, catching its warmth on her skin.

"You will catch a cold," Fíli mumbles, but it sounds halfhearted to his own ears. The sight of her standing in the shallow water, the reflection of the sunlight making her skin glitter, is so transfixing he has no desire whatsoever to have it end.

His throat dry as parchment, he watches her take a few cautious steps, lowering herself until she is submerged up to her shoulders. The water must be positively freezing and Fíli experiences a little jolt of concern when he wonders if the current might be strong enough to pose an actual danger. He clamps down hard on his impulse to remind Sigrid of those things – he's not some sort of mother hen and Sigrid may be many things, but a helpless little chick is not among them. Not anymore.

Instead, he gets to his feet and moves closer to the water as well, kicking off his boots as he does so. He won't go in, for returning to the mountain in a completely drenched state would raise too many questions. But seeking a bit of refreshment cannot hurt, especially with a view such as this.

He was right – the water is rather on the icy side of the temperature scale. His feet tingle as he watches Sigrid drift around in the clear, relatively quiet water for a bit, clearly not too perturbed by its effect on her body. Eventually, though, even she is forced to succumb to her need for warmth and she returns to the river bank, raising herself from the water with both a shiver and a smile.

"Are you sure that you won't come in? I feel that a cold bath does wonders for a distracted mind."

He ignores her allusion to the confession which he still owes her and shakes his head, grinning. "Another time, perhaps. It wouldn't do for me to leave a puddle under my seat when I return to Erebor in time for dinner."

Her answering smile is a little rueful. "No, that wouldn't be so clever, would it?"

Fíli hates to see some of the mirth in her eyes dim at this reminder that time is, as always, working against them. He tries to think of a way to return that spark to her gaze, but quickly becomes distracted by another shiver coursing through her body.

"Here," he says, reaching up to undo the lacings on his tunic. "Wear this while we put your clothes into the sun to dry. I hate sounding like my own mother, but you will catch your death if you do not get out of those wet things."

As Sigrid steps closer and reaches out to take the proffered garment, Fíli exerts all his willpower to not let his eyes stray to the places in which her wet blouse and underskirt cling to her skin. Still, warmth rises in his cheeks despite the cool breeze that brushes across his now bared chest. What happened between them that night in his chambers is one thing, but standing here, in broad daylight, with her being so very... _exposed _is a different matter altogether and sends his imagination reeling.

Maybe it's silly, but still Fíli turns his back to her to give her some privacy while she replaces her drenched clothes with his dry shirt. Behind him, there's the sloshing sound of water as Sigrid fully emerges from the river and after a few more seconds he hears her wet clothes drop to the ground with a wet splat. Fíli's already overactive imagination takes this clue to Sigrid's current state of (un)dress to provide him with even more material that gets him into a rather intolerable state of excitement. A prolonged silence follows, after which the sound of Sigrid's voice causes his breath to become stuck in his throat.

"You can turn around now."

He does, slowly, and feels his jaw drop when he sees that yes, she has put on his shirt, but has not bothered to do up the lacing at the front, the garment hanging open to reveal quite a lot of her upper body. Before he can stop himself, his gaze travels down her long neck to take in the sight of her firm, round breasts that are only halfway covered by the rather coarse fabric.

As always when she is being deliberately bold, a very becoming flush tints her delicate skin, betraying the effort it takes her to be more courageous than anyone might expect her to be. And, as always when this happens, Fíli feels himself fall a little harder for her.

He rewards her courage by stepping closer, his expression rapt as he takes in the vision of beauty that she is. Seeing that there is no real reason to act shyly, he raises his hand and slips it underneath her open shirt, gently placing his fingers against her waist. Her skin is cold and still a little damp and the desire to press his lips to every inch of her, to allow his hot breath to chase away the coldness, shoots through Fíli like a bolt of lightning.

He gives into this temptation and brings his mouth to a spot right above her collarbone. Her skin tastes like spring rain and he wants more of that. Now.

Running his hands down her sides, he reaches around her waist, cupping her shapely bottom in his palms. His long tunic covers the upper half of her thighs and he pushes away the very distracting thought that she wears nothing underneath. Adjusting his hold onto her, he lifts her off her feet in one swift motion, causing her to yelp in surprise. Her hands dig into his shoulders for support while her legs come up automatically to wrap around his hips. Holding her close to him, he carries her back to their spot under the willows, his steps steady even though the sensation of having her cling to him like this has reduced his knees to jelly.

In his arms, Sigrid turns her head and nips at his earlobe, which makes him drop to his knees much less graciously than he intended. A growl of almost feral quality escapes his lips and he lowers her onto her back, not pausing before he covers her body with his. He attacks the exposed skin of her collarbone, her shoulder, her throat with vigor, scarcely pausing to draw a breath before he finally crushes his lips to hers.

She squirms beneath him, her legs still wrapped firmly around his hips. As she arches her back and pushes herself up against him, the urge to join his body to hers becomes almost unbearable in its intensity and Fíli does the only thing he can think of that will prevent him from yanking down his trousers and granting them both the release which they so obviously crave.

Raising himself on his arms, he begins to scoot down her body, leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses on her skin. Past her navel he goes and he can both hear and feel her breath quicken a little bit more with every inch of his downward progress. A voice in his head keeps reminding him that he had originally intended for this encounter to remain at least somewhat innocent, but clearly they have moved past that point now. He lifts one of his hands off the ground and strokes Sigrid's leg, running it up and down her thigh before grasping her knee and angling it outward by applying gentle pressure.

She obliges him, and he eagerly uses his newfound freedom of movement to conclude his mouth's journey with a tentative exploration of her womanhood.

"You—what—," Sigrid splutters when he sweeps his tongue across her most sensitive flesh and Fíli raises his head to find her propped up on her elbows, staring at him with her face as flushed as he has never seen it before.

"Do you wish for me to stop?" he asks, the brush of the braids in his beard against her flesh as he speaks not entirely accidental.

She shivers in response. "No," she whispers. And then, more firmly, "No, I most assuredly do not want you to stop. In fact, I might never speak to you again of you do."

"I thought as much." He grins wickedly before resuming his previous attentions, growing bolder now that she has given him explicit permission to do so.

If the taste of her skin was exhilarating already then her very essence flooding his senses certainly has the potential of driving him stark mad. His fingers dig into the flesh of her hip as a tremor of want surges through him and she hisses in response. He relaxes his hold onto her immediately, an apology already forming on his lips, but her hand clasps his in an iron grip.

"No," she pants, pressing his fingers even more firmly into her flesh.

If his mouth wasn't busy with other things, he might have smirked at that. As things stand, he shifts his weight so that he is now kneeling between her legs. With both of his hands now freed, he takes a firm hold of her hips again and yanks her towards him, thereby increasing the pressure of his lips, his tongue, against her.

He's not opposed to the occasional bit of roughness and neither is Sigrid, judging by the loud moan which escapes her lips. She is writhing in his grasp, now, and since Fíli does not want to exert too much force in order to hold her still, he decides to have mercy on her. His licks and nips change into little sucks, gentle at first, but quickly growing in intensity.

One of her hands tangles in his hair, tugging on it with just enough force to elicit a hum of pleasure from him. The little tremor in his lips brought about by that sound appears to be just a tad too much for Sigrid and she crashes over the edge of her own passion with a cry that makes Fíli very, very glad that they did not stay at that abandoned guardhouse.

With his left hand he holds her down as she convulses against him, accentuating every wave of pleasure she experiences with a little flick of his tongue. Shoving down his trousers with his right hand, he takes himself in a firm grip, thrusting into his closed fist with several sharp bucks of his hips. He shudders as his own release washes over him mere seconds later, resting his now damp forehead on Sigrid's lower belly while his breath rushes out of him in one long groan.

Sigrid hisses when his breath brushes across her swollen flesh and her fingers grapple at his shoulders, his hair, his upper arms to pull him up to her. He follows gladly, crawling over her with shaking limbs to bury his face against the side of her neck. She holds him close, the erratic beating of her heart rivaled only by his own frantic heartbeat where their bare chests are pressed together.

"That really was—I mean, I did not know it was possible to—without even—"

Fíli chuckles into the crook of her neck. "I'm sure I can think of a number of other ways to achieve something of similar... _merit._" He lifts his head to grin wickedly at her. "I would be happy to demonstrate them to you at any given opportunity."

She nods, her grin matching his own. "Please do."

He rolls off her then and lies on his back beside her. With his left arm he pulls her against his side and she follows his invitation eagerly, resting her head on his shoulder. The drooping vines of the willows filter the sunlight of the late afternoon, making shadows dance across their skin like hundreds of black butterflies. For a while the only sounds are the quiet rustle of the leaves in the gentle breeze and the steady gurgle of the river. Fili almost wishes he were allowed to fall asleep here and wonders vaguely what sort of dreams he might have if he did. Pleasant ones, he is quite sure.

Sleep, however, is not an option. Their return to their separate lives is imminent and with it the need to face certain realities.

He is not conscious of having moved at all, but something – maybe a change in his breathing, a quickening of his heartbeat – must have given him away, for Sigrid lifts her head from his chest eventually and supports her weight on her own elbow so that she may look at him.

"Are you ready to tell me, now?"

He won't insult her with feigned ignorance of what she speaks of and so he heaves a heavy sigh, his heart a painfully tight knot in his chest at the thought of what he is about to reveal to her. He lifts his eyes to hers then and finds only affection in her gaze – no suspicion, no trepidation. No expectations.

The words become lodged in his throat. He cannot tell her. Cannot smother that innocent little spark in her eyes by reminding her so cruelly of the fact that they have no real place in each other's life and that they are merely getting by on borrowed time. He has faced whole armies of enemies without ever considering running away, but when it comes to breaking her heart, he is the worst of cowards, it seems.

"We—we won't be seeing much of each other in the weeks to come, I'm afraid," he finally says, blinking repeatedly in his effort to hold her gaze. "The forgeries are about to reopen and—and Dáin will be returning to Erebor in a few days so there will be a lot of things to attend to and… well. Little time for me to go on outings such as this one."

None of those things are untrue, and yet not even the most outrageous lie could have caused him to feel worse about himself than he does now. He vows to himself that he will tell her, and soon. Just not today. Not before he has had more time with her while what has grown between them is not yet tainted by the relentlessness of his duty to his people.

Sigrid studies him for a long moment, so long, in fact, that he is certain she will call him out on his lie or, worse, run off in a fit of – justified – rage. But then she smiles hesitantly, her hand inching across the sandy earth until her fingers find his.

"That is not too bad, then," she says, and Fíli's heart clenches painfully with each syllable. She lifts her other hand to tuck a wayward braid back behind his ear. The sweetness of the gesture nearly has him on his knees beside her, confessing to his cowardice.

"My father is making plans to visit the Elvenking's halls in a fortnight," Sigrid adds after a pause. "He will be gone for several days, I believe..."

They share a secretive smile at that and Fíli takes the hand that is still toying with the beads in his hair to bring it to his lips. The part of his mind that never gets a break from his duties as king registers with some amount of interest that apparently Thranduil is gradually lifting the lockdown under which he has kept his kingdom since the battle, but he shelves the thought away for later examination and returns his undivided attention to Sigrid.

"Thad and Flad will be happy to assist with arranging a way for us to meet, I'm sure," he says. "And you are right, of course. Two weeks isn't too bad."

_No, but lying to her and secretly plotting to leave her for several months is, you git._ Fíli fights hard not to wince as the voice of his conscience (this one sounding a lot more like Thorin rather than his usual impersonation of Kíli) bears down on him with vigor.

A fortnight seems the right amount of time to get his thoughts in order, he silently argues, to figure out if undertaking this journey to the West is the right thing to do. To come up with a way of letting Sigrid know that this is not his choice, that, if things were different, he would choose her at every chance he got.

Still – no matter how often he repeats those resolutions to himself while they gather their things and slowly begin their journey back to the abandoned guard house outside the city walls of Dale, he cannot shake the nagging feeling that he is causing much more harm than good by keeping things from the woman nestled against his chest, by betraying her trust, so freely given.

When they have said their goodbyes in the soft light of early dusk and Sigrid has already taken a step towards the ruined little building where she will wait for Flad, Fíli reaches out to her again, twirling her around and tugging her against him so that he may press his lips to hers once more. She sighs into their kiss as he deepens it and Fíli tries to commit the small sound as well as the eagerness of her lips beneath his to his memory. He cannot help but fear that it may be his last chance to do so.


	22. Day 141

_A/N: Since most of you were disappointed with Fíli at the end of the last chapter, I felt the need to have a closer look at what is going on inside his head right now. So here's a shorter chapter, followed by a longer, more action-packed one. As always, thanks so much for your feedback and encouragement!  
_

**Day 141**

"So – the rumor would have it that you have decided to undertake a journey to Ered Luin."

"We're coming, obviously. When are we leaving, precisely?"

When Thad and Flad corner Fíli after dinner on the one hundred forty-first day, he glares at them for bringing up this hated topic so late in the day.

"Not yet," he answers evasively and tries to sidestep the brothers in order to be able to return to his quarters where he might find an hour or two of peace before someone else is bound to come pestering him about the same matter.

His answer when pressed about his decision regarding the journey proposed by Balin has, for the past two weeks, remained the same. _Not yet_.

When Balin inquired as to whether he had made up his mind regarding his proposition.

When Dwalin began making suggestions as to whom they might approach about remaining in the Blue Mountains for that first year.

When the topic how governance of his kingdom ought to be organized during his absence arose among his council members.

_Not yet_. Yes, it's cowardly and probably more than a bit selfish to keep avoiding a confrontation with the issue, but he just cannot seem to help himself.

Oh, it's not that he hasn't thought about it. He has turned the matter over and over in his mind until it has begun to fester, poisoning both his waking and sleeping hours. And whichever path he tries to take in the labyrinthine corridors of his mind, he always finds himself at a dead end before too long.

Go, and risk damaging his relationship with Sigrid beyond repair. Stay, and endanger not merely the stability of his reign, but also the safety of his people. Ask Dis to join him here, at Erebor, and drag her halfway across Middle Earth to the place where her brother and youngest son met their ruin. Let her stay at Ered Luin indefinitely and deny himself the comfort of having the one person close by who will stand by him no matter what, who might even be persuaded to see his attachment to the daughter of the King of Dale not as a sign of their impending doom, but for the wonderful thing it really is. Make that journey back to their old home and accept the fact that Kíli is gone forever by undertaking it without him. Remain in the place where his brother allegedly laid down his life and be haunted forever by the ghosts of those whom he already failed to save.

It's hopeless, really, and since Fíli cannot even begin to put those conflicting thoughts and feelings into words – not without risking to permanently discredit himself in front of everyone else – he has evaded discussing the matter at all cost.

Thad and Flad, unfortunately, are not as easily put off as Balin, Dwalin, or the Dwarves on his council. The brothers fall into step beside him, keeping up with his deliberately brisk pace with a nonchalance that irks him beyond what is reasonable.

"You mean you have not yet decided that you are leaving or that it is not yet time to start preparing for that journey?" Flad asks lightly.

"Or," Thad adds to his brother's question, "that you haven't had time yet to inform all the relevant parties of your intentions?"

Fíli glowers at Thad, who returns his gaze wearing an expression of perfect innocence – too perfect, as a matter of fact. Insightful little bugger. "All of that, I suppose," Fíli admits grudgingly.

"I see." Thad shares a meaningful glance with his brother. "He's doing it again, it would seem."

Fíli stops, turning to fully face the blonde Dwarf. "Doing what, exactly?" His tone is sharp, much sharper than when he normally speaks to the brothers.

"Yes, you are right," Flad pipes up from behind him. "He is definitely doing it again."

Whipping his head around with enough force to cause his neck to give a disconcerting pop, Fíli turns his glare on the redhead. "Excuse me? I'm standing right here. What is it that I am supposedly doing?"

"You are once again letting your guilt get the better of you," Thad says calmly while Flad steps around Fíli and comes to stand at his brother's side, nodding emphatically.

Fíli snorts. "I assure you that I am doing no such thing. I don't know where you—wait, what do you mean, 'again'?"

Again, the two brothers exchange the sort of significant look that makes Fíli want to kick them both in their balls.

"Oh, I don't know," Thad says innocently. "Like the time you almost married a murderous maniac just because you believed that you owed it to your people to form a strong alliance, maybe?"

"Ooh, yes, that's a good one," Flad mutters and then shudders. "That was _madness_."

Well, Fíli cannot deny the truth in that, can he? Now that he knows what it is like to be with Sigrid – to truly be with her – just the thought of tying himself to another seems outlandish at best. Still, that does not mean that he is inclined to agree with the brothers' assessment of his state of mind.

"You do not know what you speak of," he says. "So until you carry the responsibility for a whole bloody kingdom on your shoulders, please refrain from passing judgment on my actions – or lack thereof, for that matter."

He tries to brush past them, but Flad stops him with a hand on his chest. Fíli tries his most murderous glare on his friend, but neither he nor his brother seem particularly impressed by that and refuse to move so much as an inch. By his beard, he really has lost all authority he ever might have held over those two, hasn't he?

"Look," Thad says in a less teasing and more diplomatic tone than before, "we are not pressuring you to make a decision. We merely wanted to remind you that you don't have to be ashamed of yourself for feeling all torn up inside. That it is not really a sign of weakness, but proof, rather, that you care so much that you want to make everyone happy. Even if that is never going to work out."

Flad nods his agreement. "We will not say anything to Sigrid, obviously. But you must tell her. Keeping this from her won't do."

So far, Fíli has been listening to what they have to say with as much calmness as he can manage nowadays, reminding himself that those are his friends and that he owes it to them to listen. However, his capacity for patience is not what it used to be, once, before things became so terribly complicated, and at the mention of his mistreatment of Sigrid's confidence he throws up his hands in defeat. "What do you want me to say? That I am a coward? That you are right? Will that make you happy?"

"Yes," Flad says solemnly at the same time that Thad exclaims,

"No! Why would it? This is not about us, but about _you_. Your sanity. Your future. And Sigrid's for that matter."

Flad nods his agreement. "She's a nice enough lass. Scarily tall, I'll grant you that, and a bit too hairless for my taste, but we've come to like her. And we don't want to see her get hurt."

"Which is exactly what will happen if you continue on this course," Thad adds.

Fíli heaves a sigh and ceases his attempts at running way from this very strange conversation. The two brothers stand and face him with matching expressions of concern while he leans against a stone pillar for support, his shoulders sagging.

"Do you really believe that I am so deluded as to not realize that?" He stares past them through the wide arch which opens into the entrance hall. People are milling about, all of them eager to begin their day's work. None of them are hesitant or doubtful when it comes to the duties that are to be paid by them. None except him, it appears.

Thad and Flad exchange another worried glance. The fact that these two mischief makers are taking this quite so seriously weighs heavy on Fíli's heart.

"Then why make such a secret out of it?" Flad asks softly.

Fíli sighs again. "I wanted to tell her, but then I found I did not have the heart to do it. I cannot look her in the eye and see the disappointment that being with me is destined to bring her over and over again."

"Perhaps you do not give her enough credit, there," Thad returns. "She understands enough about duty to not hold the decisions you are forced to make on behalf of your people against you."

Fíli mulls this over for a moment and then gives another sigh. "With regard to most circumstances that may be true. But this – leaving her for so long without any sort of reassurance, without even a proper promise..." He shakes his head, sadly. "She may never forgive me for that."

"Should you not let her be the one to decide what she will and what she won't forgive?"

Fíli blinks at Flad, but before he has the chance to respond to his question, Thad speaks up again.

"You are making this unnecessarily hard for yourself. Speak to her. You have barely seen her in—what? Two weeks? She misses you, I'm sure, and you miss her. Get this over with and you will have more time to spend with her before you go - _if_ you go."

Still, Fíli merely gapes at the brothers. Put like that it all sounds awfully easy, but it cannot be, can it? If it were, he wouldn't have lost so much sleep and almost all of his appetite over it in the last couple of weeks. With some words of protest ready to tumble off the tip of his tongue, he opens his mouth to speak, but is silenced once more by Flad slinging his arm over his shoulder.

"Come now. We'll have a couple of drinks, purge your head of some of those guilty thoughts, and get you to bed early. As you may recall, Bard is set to leave for Mirkwood today, which means it should not be too difficult to bring Sigrid up here tomorrow. You'll talk, you'll argue, you'll reconcile, and you'll feel much better."

"Don't forget a bit of action between the sheets," Thad adds, wriggling his pale eyebrows suggestively.

"Ah, yes, we wouldn't want to forget about that, obviously," Flad agrees quite earnestly. "If nothing else, that is certainly going to make you feel so much better."

While they march him into the direction of their favorite tavern, Fíli is torn between scolding the brothers for their insolence, protesting their plans and outright laughing at their ridiculous simplification of his situation. In the end, he merely opens and closes his mouth a couple of times, no words making it past his lips. Did he really just get bullied into confronting his fears and finally ending this strange limbo of indecisiveness? It appears that he did.

"Who proclaimed you the experts in such matters of the heart?" he asks grumpily as they draw close to the entrance to Erebor's largest and most frequented tavern, the sounds of raucous laughter and the fumes of ale and spirits filling the air.

"We did, of course," Thad answers cheerfully, his strides quickening at the prospect of a large, heavy jug of ale.

"There are, however, a few ladies down in the kitchens and at the stables who would surely be happy to vouch for our... _competence,_" Flad adds with a bit of a leer.

Fíli cringes as he steps aside to let his friends pass through the entrance to the tavern in front of him, but then he shrugs. He did ask, didn't he?


	23. Day 142

_A/N: The second chapter I'm posting today, please make sure to read the previous one first. Enjoy!_

**Day 142**

In his dream in the wee hours of the one hundred forty-second day, Fíli is lying on the hard, dry soil of a barren landscape. A fierce wind whips around his face, tearing at his hair, his clothes. He tries to raise himself off the ground, but his limbs won't obey him and all he can do is turn his head in a futile attempt to gather his bearings.

Nothing, as far as the eye can see.

But then, in the distance, a shape begins to move towards him, its contours blurred by the grains of sand and dust swirling through the air. Fíli strains his eyes, but the shape becomes no clearer. Dread claws at his insides – he is utterly defenseless and even if he were able to move, there would be nowhere to hide in this vast nothingness of a landscape.

A sound reaches his ears then, and for a moment he thinks that someone is calling his name, someone familiar. Before he can identify the voice, however, it is drowned out by the howling of the wind. The noise becomes louder and louder, echoing through his skull, making it impossible to form a coherent thought. Fíli presses his hands over his ears in an attempt to block it out, but it's to no avail.

For a few terrible seconds, he thinks he hears a woman's frantic scream over the sound of the storm raging around him. Out of seemingly nowhere, a sharp pain explodes in his temple and he opens his eyes to find himself lying face down on the floor beside his bed, his breath coming in ragged gasps and the howling of the wind still echoing in his ears. He struggles to sit up, the sheets that have become tangled around his legs during his odd nightmare making this action more difficult than it should be.

As he fights to regain his composure by forcing himself to breathe more slowly, he realizes with no small amount of horror that the sound he still hears is more than just an echo from his dream. It is quite real, and he knows without a doubt where it originates from.

It's the horn of Dale, sending out a call of distress.

_Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, buggering shit._

He's already hopping around on one foot, trying to yank his boot onto the other, when his door bangs open to admit Dwalin . Fíli stops fiddling with his footwear as he gapes at Dwalin who, unlike himself, is in full armor already.

Biting back the irrelevant question whether Dwalin sleeps like that, Fíli resumes the process of getting dressed and dons a Mithril mail coat over his nightshirt, ignoring the unpleasant way in which the sweat-drenched fabric of the shirt clings to his skin.

"What's happening?" he barks at Dwalin. This isn't the time for politeness.

"Our sentinels have yet to return, so we cannot be certain. Goblin attack would be my guess."

Yes, what else could it be? There is no strife between the people of Dale and their neighbors, and the unexpectedness of the assault smells strongly of a random goblin raid.

Fíli yanks his coat over the Mithril shirt, not bothering with the bulkier parts of his armor. For one thing, there is no time to waste; also he wants to be able to move freely in what he expects will mostly be close combat situations.

"Bard has left the city yesterday afternoon," he remarks while he straps his blades to his upper body.

"I am aware. Rather unfortunate timing, if you ask me." Dwalin's words are calm and formal, but the glower with which he accompanies them ought to send any enemy running.

Unfortunate indeed, Fíli thinks to himself. For a few brief moments, panic wells up in his chest as the image of Sigrid and her siblings, defenseless and unsuspecting, rises to the forefront of his mind. He shrugs it off, reminding himself that this is not the first time Bain, Tilda and Sigrid encounter this type of situation. They will know what to do in order to keep themselves saves until he and his men can come to their aid. This, at last, is something he knows how to do – if he can keep it together long enough to get himself to Dale, that is.

Again, he chooses Kíli's sword on his way to the door, sheathing it with a silent prayer that it will bring him luck. Dwalin falls into step beside him, neither of them looking back as they leave his rooms.

"How many men can we have up and ready on such short notice?" he asks Dwalin as they jog down the corridor side by side.

"Not as many as I would like," Dwalin grunts. "And we cannot send them all to Dale. What if that is precisely what the brutes are waiting for before launching an attack on the mountain?"

He's right, of course, and Fíli finds himself struggling with his priorities. "We owe it to Bard to send as many as we possibly can," he finally says. "Tell Glorin to stay behind with his usual troupe. They must barricade the gates once we have left and if they spot any sort of hostile movement, they are to light the signal fires immediately. We'll turn back if that happens."

Dwalin gives one sharp nod and disappears down the next stairwell to their left, leaving Fíli to hurry down toward the entrance hall by himself. To his relief people have already begun gathering at one end of the long hall, more individuals continuing to trickle into the vast space from the various tunnels and stairwells connected to it. Some of them look scared and more than a little confused by this nightly rapport, but a reassuringly large amount is already heavily armed, ready to go into battle. This will save them valuable time.

At the edge of the crowd Fíli spots Thad and Flad. Their faces turn up toward him as soon as he begins to head down the stairs and he quickly strides over to them before his presence becomes noted by everyone else. He has not dared to hope for a chance to speak to them in private, and yet here they are, waiting for him as if they sensed his need.

"We know what you are going to ask us," Thad says as soon as he is close enough to hear his subdued voice. "And we'll do it gladly."

Fíli nods grimly, putting one hand on each of the brothers' shoulders. "I hope I shall have a chance to repay you for your loyalty." And then, leaning in closer so that no one else will hear what he says next, "Try not to engage before the rest of us gets there. I don't want you to put yourselves in any more danger than strictly necessary. Just... try to make sure she's safe." His eyes stray to their wild manes that stand out even in the dim torchlight. "And for Mahal's sake, put on helmets or something. You are about as inconspicuous as a pair of Oliphaunts at a hobbit family gathering."

The brothers share a grin. "As Your Majesty commands," Flad says.

A short bow and then the two of them disappear amongst the throng of people still streaming into the entrance hall. Over the heads of his remaining brethren Fili sees them slip out of the gates into the outer darkness and prays that they will not pay with their lives for their unflinching loyalty to him. He would not be able to forgive himself in that case - but then again, neither could he live with himself if he did not do everything in his power to ensure Sigrid's well-being.

Dwalin arrives then, finding and holding Fíli's gaze. He nods. Everyone's ready. Over Dwalin's shoulder, Fíli can see Glorin and his men take up their places as guardians of Erebor, their faces as stern as their postures are proud. This lot will defend the mountain until their last drop of blood – although, of course, Fíli hopes that it won't come to that tonight.

He steps back onto the staircase he just descended, climbing up a couple of steps so that he can address the crowd from above.

"Those of you who aren't fighters – fear not," he calls out. All eyes turn towards him, an eerie silence descending over the hall. He ignores the loud echo of his own voice and continues. "The gates built by our forefathers will not fail you and our most trusted soldiers stand ready to protect you should the need arise." He shares a quick nod with Glorin before turning towards the larger group of armed Dwarves. "Those of you who are prepared to fight, follow me as swiftly as you can. Make no compromises. We have only just driven the forces of evil from these lands and we are _not_ going to let a band of brutes ruin our hard-earned peace."

A murmur of assent passes through the crowd and there's a clatter of weapons as each fighter prepares to go into battle. Pride at the thought that none of his men pause to question his resolution to intervene on behalf of the people of Dale fills Fíli's heart. It hasn't all been for nothing – times and views have changed, and he can claim at least a tiny bit of responsibility for that.

He descends the stairs again and moves through the crowd towards the gates, people stepping aside to allow him to pass. "It may be Dale which we defend tonight, but it might as well be Erebor," he calls. "Our cities are forever joined, and we will stand by each other unconditionally. So follow me as I say: For Erebor!"

"For Erebor!"

The words echo through the hall and then everyone is moving, the presence of his men at his back carrying Fíli towards the gates like a tidal wave. Dwalin falls into step beside him, and from the corner of his eye he can see the former members of Thorin's company each taking charge of their own unit. What they lack in numbers they certainly make up for with their fierce determination – Fíli can only hope that this will be enough.

Through the gates they march and the night swallows them hungrily. The sky is overcast, no moon and no stars lighting their path tonight. The only bright spots in the darkness originate from Dale. Some of the flames blazing through the night Fíli recognizes as the city's signal fires. There are others, however, that can only be of malicious origin and he clenches his jaw with the effort of not letting his mind conjure images of Bard's house on fire.

Outside, several ponies are saddled and ready. Fíli swings himself onto Arran's back without hesitation, swiftly looking over his shoulder at the small army he is about to lead into battle. Some of them are on horseback as well, but most of them will undertake the journey on foot. It's a good thing that Dwarves are fast runners for if there is one thing they cannot afford, then it is to lose valuable time.

The cold night air bites at his cheeks as he gallops across the plain connecting Erebor and Dale and soon the city looms up into the sky before him. He tries to block out all distractions, refusing to acknowledge the screams that pierce the silence of the night.

Outside the city walls there is no movement. Fíli suspects that the guard has withdrawn into the city to defend its inhabitants. Either way, the quiet can only work to their advantage. If the people of Dale do not know they're coming, then neither do their enemies and they'll have the element of surprise on their side.

Another scream, a woman's, coming from just inside the city walls. Fíli tastes blood as he bites down on the inside of his cheek, the need to rush through the gates sending his heart racing. _Keep calm. Lead your men and vanquish this threat as you have done with so many others._

He looks at Dwalin, a silent communication passing between them. The older Dwarf nods and falls back to round up their people, shepherding them into the shadows cast by the city walls.

Fíli slides off Arran's back and sends the pony off into the night with a whisper into his ear and a light clap against his flanks. There is nothing for Arran to assist him with here and he would much rather have him return to Erebor safely than risk his life here.

While he waits until everyone is in line, Fíli sends a silent prayer to whoever might be listening. Today was supposed to be the day where he spoke to Sigrid about Balin's idea of sending him to Ered Luin and while he has been anticipating this conversation with quite some trepidation, he would much rather be forced to break her heart than to watch her come to harm at the hands of those beasts. His hope rests on Thad and Flad and their capacity for quick thinking and unconventional solutions. Other than himself, there is no one whom he trusts more when it comes to keeping Sigrid safe. Still, he has to tamp down his impulse to do what his brother would have done and throw himself into the midst of things without so much as a second thought.

Some of his struggle must have shown on his face, for as Dwalin returns to his side, he gives him an odd look and raises an eyebrow in an unspoken question. Fíli shakes his head, once, and tightens his hold onto his sword. He cannot afford to show any weakness, not now.

A final glance over his shoulder and then he and his men are moving, inching closer to the gates which stand, worryingly enough, wide open. They creep inside, fanning out as soon as they are within the city's borders. Dwalin and Fíli both stay close to the gates, directing those who follow down alleys and up stairwells, letting the city absorb their forces like water trickling into thirsty, dried up soil.

The narrow alleys at the edge of the city appear mostly deserted. From what Fíli knows of the layout of Dale, this is not altogether surprising. The buildings closest to the town wall were damaged most severely in the battle and while much has already been done in terms of reconstruction, they are currently mostly used for storage and the keeping of livestock. A horde of goblins intent on both looting and throat-cutting would not find much there by ways of amusement. No – the heart of the action seems to be taking place in the depths of the city, and so this is where they are all headed, still keeping to the shadows to attract as little attention as possible.

There is a group of five, maybe six goblins trying to force their way into a house in one of the streets further inside the city. The house's inhabitants appear to have had the good sense to barricade themselves inside their home at the first sign of danger and the goblins are now having a hard time to breach the solid walls and boarded windows. Still, experience tells Fíli that they won't give up before they've got what they came for – even the sturdiest of doors can only hold for so long.

He glances at Dwalin and the group of Dwarves following behind, nodding sharply. It's time to strike.

They move swiftly and with deadly precision. Before the goblins know what hit them, three of them are already on the ground, clutching their slit throats while the convulsions of imminent death wrack their bony bodies. One of the remaining two tries to make a run for it but finds itself pursued and brought down by Dwalin and two other Dwarves, originally Dáin's men. Meanwhile, Fíli turns his attention on the last of the goblins, who snarls at him, baring its foul teeth.

"I've bloody had enough of you lot for a lifetime," Fíli mutters. A quick strike with his – Kíli's – blade and the goblin is divested of its ugly head. "There. That's better."

They regroup quickly and continue further into the city where the sounds of fighting are now much louder than the screams. It appears that the other units of Dwarves have begun to arrive in the thick of things and have thrown themselves into battle. Fíli quickens his steps, eager to join his men and end this siege. The number of hostiles they come across grows the further they move into the city, but as with those first few, Fíli and his men finish them off quickly.

Even though he has never been there, Fíli knows that Bard's house is in one of the wider streets adjacent to the marketplace in the center of the city. If he can just make it there, assure himself that the house has not been breached and then focus all of his attention on winning this fight... He will have to try. And so he keeps pushing himself forward, scarcely pausing to breathe.

Things go well for a while until they don't anymore. There's a loud crash followed by an uproar and Fíli turns around just in time to see Thad and Flad come hurtling towards him. Under different circumstances their frantic gestures for him to get moving might have been amusing, but as things stand Fíli watches in a horrified stupor as a wave of dozens of goblins comes pouring down the alleyway behind the two brothers, the fiendish creatures' bloodshot eyes filled with murderous intent.

"Fíli! Get out the way, now!"

Just as Flad's words finally register with his momentarily frozen mind, a heavy weight smacks into Fíli's side and he finds himself pinned down by Dwalin's much bulkier body in the narrow space between two buildings. Dwalin is back on his feet in an instant and moves in front of his young king, his broad shoulders almost brushing against the stone walls to both their left and their right. As Fíli rises as well, his head still spinning a little from this unexpected maneuver, he looks over Dwalin's shoulder to see Thad and Flad occupying a similar passage on the opposite side of the street.

There is scarcely time to exchange more than a bewildered glance with the brothers before the horde of goblins tramples past their hiding place. For a confused moment, Fíli tries to work out why they are not stopping to look for them - surely they must have seen them duck out of their way mere seconds ago. Then, his unspoken question is answered with a deep, rumbling sound that resonates in the pit of his stomach. A ridiculously large number of wooden barrels comes tumbling after the goblins, the rather steep incline of the cobbled street leading up to the city's center lending them a decidedly deadly momentum.

"By my beard, I hope those are empty," Dwalin laments in front of Fíli.

That hope is crushed rather quickly when one of the barrels crashes into a house's corner, red liquid bathing the walls and the street like blood. Fíli swallows at the gruesome image and looks away. It's just wine. This is not the time to begin looking for bad omens, not when they are already in the midst of all this.

Dwalin pokes his head out between the stone walls and beckons for Fíli to follow him. They are met by Thad and Flad in the middle of the road, all four of them turning to gaze after the curious stampede of goblins and barrels. There is no trace of the other Dwarves who came with them, but Fíli suspects they, too, were quick enough to hide and are now regrouping elsewhere.

He turns towards the brothers. "What on earth...?"

Thad shrugs. "Call it an odd combination of ill fortune and good luck. Either way, this should keep them busy for a bit."

"It's a shame about the wine, though," Flad adds.

While Dwalin grunts his agreement, Fíli exchanges a look with Thad. The blond Dwarf gives a minute shake of his head, his eyes grave. They did not make it to Bard's house then after all. Damn his luck.

Fíli whirls around to gaze up to where the goblins and barrels just descended from. Every inch of his being is on fire with the need to go up there himself and find Sigrid. But he cannot do that, can he? Abandoning his men in the middle of this mission is unthinkable, but so is being here and not doing anything while all kinds of terrible things might be happening atop that hill.

As helplessness threatens to overwhelm him, Fíli becomes aware of Dwalin's eyes resting steadily on him. "Go on then," the older Dwarf says once he can be sure to have his king's attention. "I've got things under control here."

"I—what—," Fíli stammers, completely taken aback.

"Go," Dwalin all but growls. "Before I change my mind."

Thad and Flad flank Dwalin on both sides, nodding a grim approval. They, too, will see to it that the battle is won and that as few of their own come to harm as possible.

Fíli looks from one to the other, not sure how to react. Then, realizing that his mouth is slightly agape, he snaps it shut. Clearly this is not the moment to deny that this is what he wants the most – Thad and Flad are privy to his secrets anyway and it would seem that Dwalin has seen through his act a long time ago.

So he swallows down all the explanations, the justifications, that sit half-formed on the tip of his tongue and adjusts his grip on his sword.

"Be careful," he says, not allowing himself to imagine a scenario in which either of those three most loyal Dwarves got hurt as a consequence of his actions.

Dwalin grunts. "Don't get yourself killed."

Fíli gives a sharp nod and turns, sprinting up the street that will take him straight to the market square. Up there, it seems, the worst of the attack is already over. Crates that were once filled with goods ready to be sold on tomorrow's market lie strewn across the square, their contents spilling out of them like the innards of fallen soldiers in a battlefield. Whatever the goblins were looking for, food must not have been it. Fruit and vegetables litter the ground, trampled and squashed into a sticky mush, the various colors that are just becoming visible in the pale light of early dawn painting the scene in a grotesquely cheerful manner.

Some of the market stalls are on fire, but the flames are already dying down and don't seem a threat to any living person. Through the clouds of smoke, Fíli discerns several bodies lying on the ground, both goblin and human. Thankfully, though, there are only few who fall onto the latter category, which reinforces Fíli's suspicion that most of Dale's inhabitants were able to lock themselves in their homes in time.

The drum of his own heartbeat is loud in his ears as he crosses the square, forcing himself to glance at each of the bodies, checking them for light brown hair and soft, feminine features. All of the fallen appear to be men and none of them familiar. For a moment, Fíli's knees quiver with his relief and one of his hands shoots up to cover his mouth in order to stifle a gasp, but he quickly composes himself. His work here is not done.

From the alleys leading away from the square down to the south gate the sounds of fighting are carried towards him on a gust of wind. His jaw set in determination, he makes his way over there, silently slipping into the street where Bard lives with his children.

The street is mostly shrouded in darkness still, the tall, closely built houses blocking out what little daylight would be available. The chaos which characterized the market square appears not to have spilled into this particular street – there are no fires, no broken goods to be found here. This is a relief, and Fíli's steps grow more confident as he approaches the bend in the alley behind which he will find Sigrid's home.

He turns the corner and for a moment fear holds him in her icy clutches, squeezing his heart so tightly that black spots appear in his vision. The door to Bard's house does not merely stand wide open, no, it's lying there, in the middle of the street, the wood broken and splintered.

His feet are moving, heels pounding loudly against the stones, before Fíli has consciously made the decision to move. Let them hear him come – he'll gladly take on as many enemies as dare to throw themselves into his path if that will distract them from the inhabitants of that house. He does not pause in the doorway, swiftly making his way into the house instead.

Never having set foot in Bard's new home before, the layout of the house is unfamiliar to Fíli. In the scant bit of light filtering in through the windows it takes him a moment to get his bearings. Once he does, he realizes that the front door opens into a large room that serves as kitchen, dining room and communal space all at once. There is a stove to his right, the embers now cold, with large wooden work surfaces to both sides. The middle of the room is occupied by a long table, mismatched chairs tucked under its edges on either side. In the far corner, under the wooden staircase which leads to the second level, there's a pair of bookcases and a set of well-worn chairs facing one another over a threadbare rug and a low, rickety table. All in all, it is not so very different from what Fíli recalls of the house at Lake-town, except that it is much more spacious and that there is less wood and more stone. Oh, yes, and the ever-present stench of dead fish, that's a thing of the past as well, thankfully.

The room is empty and Fíli can detect no obvious signs of a struggle. Still, that does not ease the tight feeling in his chest. He is already hurrying towards the stairs when a scratching noise draws his attention to the back of the kitchen. He hesitates, but then decides to investigate, silently creeping towards the dark passage which leads away from the kitchen.

To his right, there is a chamber containing a narrow bed, a dresser and a rocking chair that is slightly too large for the small space. From Sigrid, Fíli knows that Bard has recently employed a woman to help with the cooking and other chores, now that Sigrid is spending more time on her studies with Óin (and other activities which the Bowman hopefully never finds out about). This must be said housekeeper's room, although there is no trace of her.

The scratching noise again, followed by a muffled sob. Sword in hand, Fíli creeps further down the narrow corridor. He can barely see anything back here but doesn't need his eyesight to alert him to a malign presence. A chill creeps up his spine and his pulse quickens, preparing his body for a fight.

There's a scrabbling sound coming towards him on the stone-tiled floor and he blindly thrusts his blade forward, trusting that whatever this is, it can only mean him harm. He staggers slightly when his sword impacts with the creature hurtling towards him, but regains his footing quickly. Raising his blade, he strikes again, swinging at the vague shape which his slowly adjusting eyes are beginning to discern in the darkness.

A stinging pain shoots up his arm as sharp teeth embed themselves in his wrist and he hisses, yanking back his arm with enough force to shake off his opponent. He raises his arm, again, and strikes, putting as much force into the blow as he can muster. This time, his sword finds its mark and there is a sickening thud as something heavy hits the floor. The hallway is plunged into silence, the sound of his own breathing unnaturally loud in Fíli's ears. More light is coming in from the kitchen now and he can make out the slumped body of a short, skinny goblin on the ground in front of him, its severed head lying beside it.

He frowns in distaste and steps around the body. There is another door at this end of the corridor and it's closed.

"Is anyone there?" he calls softly.

He hears a woman's gasp and is keenly aware of his blood pulsing through his veins more quickly than usual while he listens to the sound of something heavy being dragged away from the other side of the door. The door opens and then it's as if someone has punched him in the gut, for the eyes that meet his with trepidation are not, as he hoped, Sigrid's.

"Sigrid, where is she?" he asks the middle-aged, plump woman who must be Bard's housekeeper. He tries for a gentle tone, but his increasing anxiety makes the words come out much more harshly than he intended.

"Master B—B—Bard's daughters were asleep in their room upstairs when they c—c—came for us," the housekeeper stammers. "We—we heard something upstairs and Jorund went to see if the Misses were in need of assistance. I ha—haven't heard anything since except the snarls of—of that thing at the door."

Her lips tremble as she shudders and despite the panic eating away at his insides, Fíli lowers himself down on one knee and puts a hand on her shoulder. "You are safe now. Help is on its way. Can you lock yourself in again while I go upstairs? Someone will come fetch you as soon as it is safe to come out."

She does not look too happy about it, but, drawing a steadying breath, nods bravely. "If they didn't get through that door before, they shan't make it now."

Fíli mirror's her nod and starts to rise. The woman's hand on his forearm causes him to pause and he looks at her questioningly. "My Jorund is scarcely more than a boy," she implores. "If you can, please make sure that he does not get himself hurt with his bravery."

"I will do what I can to assure his safety," he promises, briefly covering her hand with his own before straightening up. He forces himself to wait until she has closed the door once more, but then his feet carry him back into the kitchen and towards the stairs without another second to waste.

He strains his ears, but there is nothing out of the ordinary that he can detect. Still, that does not have to mean anything. Despite their general lack of intelligence, goblins can be sneaky bastards when the situation demands it and so he climbs the stairs with all his senses on high alert, ready to strike at any moment.

There's a body at the top of the stairs. For a shameful, selfish moment, relief floods Fíli when he recognizes the uniform of the city guard, the tell-tale brown helmet lying on the floor a couple of feet further down a dimly lit corridor. He steps around the body and leans down to peer at the soldier's face, his heart sinking when he finds a smooth, young face with large, empty eyes staring back at him. This must be Jorund and any help that Fíli might have given him comes too late.

A clatter from somewhere to his left has Fíli on his feet again in an instant and he cautiously moves down the corridor, peering into empty rooms. The first one he comes across is a small study, maps and scrolls of parchment littering every available surface. The second room contains a narrow bed and a workbench with some tools and half-finished carvings. Bain's room, Fíli surmises, and wonders where the boy might be, for the housekeeper only spoke of the two 'Misses'. Did Bard take him with him when he left for Mirkwood?

That sound from before again, this time accompanied by a loud thump. Fíli quits Bain's chamber and advances further down the corridor, keeping close to the wall. There are two more doors, one open and one closed. His back firmly pressed against the wall, he risks a quick glance into the open room. A wide four-poster bed takes up a good portion of the space. At its foot there is a massive wooden chest with a heavy iron lock. A goblin is bent over the chest, snarling furiously while trying to break the lock open. There are a number of items – several knives, a candleholder, a fire poker – scattered across floor at the goblin's feet, all of which, Fíli presumes, failed to accomplish this task.

Now, most of those things would have been an excellent choice for an offensive weapon, but for some reason which completely eludes Fíli, the brute picks up the candleholder once he steps into the room and lunges itself at him. Not wanting to have his skull cracked open with the goblin's eccentric weapon, Fíli reaches for one of the knives strapped to his back with the speed of lightning and hurls it at his opponent, the blade swishing through the air with the force of his throw. He hits his mark and the goblin drops to the ground with the knife firmly embedded between its eyes.

A deadly silence falls over the house. There is only one room left to investigate and the fear of what he might find in there turns Fíli's blood to ice. He backs out of what must be Bard's bedroom and silently crosses over to the remaining door, scarcely daring to breathe as he puts his palm against the wood and gives the door a push.

It's locked.

He steps back, his options flashing through his mind in a handful if seconds. He can call out, hope that Sigrid and Tilda are locked safely in that room and wait for them to open the door. However, that would mean risking to alert anyone - or any_thing _– else in there with the girls to his presence. His other option is to break down the door, finish off any enemies who might have gotten it into their heads to hold the Bowman's daughters hostage, and finally end this.

Breaking down the door it is, then.

Fíli takes another step back, bracing himself against the wall at his back. Then he throws himself forward with as much momentum as he can manage in the narrow hallway, slamming his shoulder into the door.

Thankfully, that door is not the sturdiest thing and gives way on his first attempt. He staggers into the room. Before he can assess the situation inside, a shrill scream makes him want to clutch his ears and then he is blinded by something soft and heavy being thrown over his head.

"What the—"

He staggers, unseeing, and then the air rushes from his lungs in a loud _oooph _when something hard and solid smacks into his side. Managing to grab a fistful of the fabric covering his head and upper body, he gives a firm yank and frees himself, blinking repeatedly as he tries to determine what on earth is going on here.

Before he can make sense of any of it, his eyes fall onto Sigrid who is standing a couple of feet in front of him, her body rigid with tension. The look on her face is one of determination, though. In her hands she is holding a large frying pan, ready to strike.

The pan clatters to the floor at the same moment that her name pours from his lips in a relieved sigh.

"Sigrid."

And then he's moving, crossing the room in three long strides until he is close enough to her to reach up and cradle her face between his palms. Her hands clutch at his shoulders, fisting in the lapels of his coat, as he leans up and crushes his mouth to hers. He can feel her breath hitch in her throat, but before he can pull back and ask her what is wrong, a high-pitched squeal sounds from somewhere behind him.

Fíli drops his hands as if he has been burned and whirls around, pulling himself up to his full height in order to shield Sigrid as well as he can. And there, emerging from behind the door that is now hanging only from one hinge, is Tilda, also brandishing some type of kitchenware and her expression one of utter rapture.

"I knew it!" she exclaims. "I knew that there was a reason you kept going to the mountain other than books and plants and herbs." She drops the pot she is holding and folds her small hands over her chest instead. "Oh, this is delightful! Are you going to get married? Oh please, please, please do, I just love weddings! We could have it here or—or at Erebor, I suppose, if that is what everyone expects, and I could—"

"Tilda."

Sigrid steps around Fíli and he looks up in time to catch her worried gaze. She crouches down in front of her little sister, taking Tilda's hand from underneath her chin and wrapping her own fingers around them. "Tilda," she says again, "You must not tell anyone about this. Do you remember what I told you about secrets?"

Tilda nods. "That bad things might happen if someone has a secret and I tell others about it. That someone might get hurt."

"Good. See, Tilda, this is my secret. And Fíli's. And now it's yours, too. Will you keep it?"

Another nod from the girl, this one more solemn. "Yes, of course." Tilda looks back and forth between Sigrid and Fíli, a frown creasing her forehead. "So you won't get married?"

Fíli cannot see Sigrid's face, but he imagines a pained look crossing it at her little sister's words and he hates himself a little bit more. Still, Sigrid's voice is calm and kind when she answers. "Not right now, no. And if our secret gets out now, we probably never will."

"I don't understand," Tilda says, her frown deepening. She glances at Fíli over her sister's shoulder and he steps forward until he is able to place a tentative hand on Sigrid's shoulder.

"Not everyone thinks that your sister and I ought to be together," he explains. "And if they find out, some of them are going to be very upset. Including your father."

"But you haven't told him, have you? Then how can you know that he won't like it?"

"Well...," Fíli begins, unsure how to argue with that kind of logic.

Sigrid reaches up to cover his hand with hers and gives him a reassuring smile before turning back to her sister. "We will tell Da. In our own time. And you must promise not to interfere with that."

"Alright. I promise." Tilda's eyes stray to their clasped hands and Fíli can tell from her shining eyes that her fantasies of flowers, pretty dresses and a large wedding feast are going to keep her occupied for quite some time still.

Satisfied with her sister's promise, Sigrid rises, still lightly holding Fíli's hand in hers. Then she frowns, her eyes resting on his wrist. "You are injured."

He looks at his wrist like it doesn't even belong to his body, completely taken aback. Only when he sees the red blood stains on his leather cuff does the pain from the bite he sustained earlier begin to register with him once more. It's nothing he cannot handle, but still it will need to be taken care of soon. "I'd completely forgotten about that," he mutters, feeling rather tired now that everything appears to be over.

Sigrid steers him towards one of the two beds facing each other across the room. "Sit. Let me tend to it."

"No." He pulls his hand from her grasp, suppressing a wince. His eyes darting over to Tilda, he steps closer to Sigrid and lowers his voice. "There is a body out in the hallway. Your housekeeper's son, I believe."

"Jorund." Sigrid's face crumples with grief and an unbidden twinge of jealousy pulls at Fíli's heartstrings. "Alva will be devastated. She only just lost her husband."

Fíli touches her shoulder in a hesitant gesture of comfort, silently reprimanding himself for his own pettiness when clearly Sigrid is merely being kind and compassionate. "I can move the body. So that Tilda doesn't have to see. Alva has locked herself in the storage closet – it might be better if she hears the news from you."

Sigrid nods, her face pale and her mouth forming a thin line. "I will go and speak to her. Is it safe to go down yet?"

At that moment Fíli hears a voice call his name from somewhere inside the house. Thad or Flad, he concludes, their voices always a little hard to distinguish when you don't see them. He walks over to the door and looks out into the corridor just in time to see a shock of red hair appear at the top of the stairs.

"Thank Mahal," Flad says when his eyes land on him. He doesn't have to say anything else for Fíli to grasp the sort of relief which he experiences, for he feels exactly the same.

"Is the house secure?" he asks the redhead.

"Aye," Flad answers. "Dwalin and Thad are standing guard outside, but I don't think there is any more danger to be expected. Those we didn't get to will have fled by now."

"Good," Fíli says, but the word feels wrong on his tongue. They went into this ill prepared and at a clear disadvantage and it can only be attributed to sheer luck that things did not end very badly. And he doesn't even know yet how many of his and Bard's people were injured – or worse – in the process. His eyes fall onto Jorund's lifeless form and his fists clench of their own volition. "Help me move him, please. His mother is downstairs, and she should not see him like this."

Together they carry Jorund into Bard's study where they place him on his back and cover his body with one of the drapes hanging in front of the window. Before Fíli pulls the fabric over the boy's face, he reaches out to close his eyes, silently apologizing to him for not getting there in time to save him.

He straightens up and tears his gaze away from the shape of the covered body, the sight of which is making his chest feel tight.

"Get back down to Dwalin and Thad," he says to Flad, deciding to ignore the droning sound in his ears that appears to be getting louder and louder. "Find our men, tend to the wounded. I'll be along shortly."

Flad nods, but Fíli can see a flicker of concern in his friend's eyes as they linger on him for a moment. He must look a bit of a fright, but then again, it has been a long night that has left its mark on all of them.

"I'll be fine," he assures Flad. "Go. Please."

The redhead squares his jaw but follows his king's command and turns to leave. Seconds later Fíli hears the thumping of Flad's heavy boots on the stairs.

He meant to head back to Sigrid and Tilda right away, but finds himself sinking into the chair behind Bard's desk instead, his eyes drifting back to the body on the floor. That is what it always seems to amount to – good people losing their lives in senseless acts of violence. Sons. Mothers. Fathers. Brothers. No one is safe.

When a hand brushes his shoulder, he gives a start and blinks up at Sigrid. Sunrays touch her hair, creating a golden frame for her tired, pale face. How long has he been sitting here like this? Seconds? Minutes?

"I spoke to Alva," she says. Ah. Not just seconds, then. "Tilda is with her now, but I ought to get back down soon. I wanted to look at your wound before I do."

He gives a weary shake of his head and reaches up to squeeze her hand. "It's nothing. Please don't trouble yourself with it."

She kneels down next to the chair. His eyes fall onto a basin filled with water and some strips of clean cloth on the floor beside his feet. How out of it was he that he did not notice her bringing those in?

"Let me help, please," Sigrid says, her tone urgent. She doesn't have to explain herself, for Fíli knows exactly how she feels. Helpless in the face of tragedy, we all need to do something, anything, to feel that we at least tried to make a difference. He holds out his injured arm without further protest.

Sigrid sets to work, unfastening the straps on his arm cuff with nimble fingers. It hurts when the material comes away from his skin, but Fíli embraces the pain. It's better than this numbness that keeps beckoning to him whenever his thoughts begin to drift.

While she cleans his wound, Fíli allows himself the luxury of studying her face. The dark circles under her eyes make his heart clench with a fierce wave of protectiveness. She should not have to endure so much in such a short time.

"I have to return to my people soon," he says. "But I resent the thought of leaving you and Tilda here to fend for yourselves."

"We won't be alone for long," Sigrid says, not pausing in her work. She has finished cleaning his wound and is now applying a pungent, yellow paste to it. "Bain rode after our father as soon as we realized something was wrong. He's fast. He may already have caught up with him."

Fíli inclines his head. That's the mystery of the boy's whereabouts solved, then. "I shall dispatch some of my men to follow him. Just to be sure that he did not encounter any sort of trouble on his way."

This earns him a relieved smile. "Thank you. That is very considerate of you."

"It's the least I can do," he mutters, averting his gaze to study the wound on his forearm instead. With the blood gone, it does not look too bad. Two rows of uneven teeth marks, adorning his skin like two imperfect little sickle moons. It's going to be one of his more interesting scars.

"None of this is your fault," Sigrid says softly. "You did what you could. You came to our help. And I—I'm just so glad you're alright. When I heard the horn, I knew you'd come and I was just so afraid for you."

He meets her gaze and sees that her eyes have misted over and she is biting her lip in an effort not to cry. Some of the paralysis he's been experiencing these past few minutes lifts then and he scoots forward in his seat to enfold her in his arms.

Holding her as tightly as he can without putting too much pressure on his not yet dressed wound, he turns his head to press a kiss into her hair. "I'm here. I cannot stay, I wish I could, but for now I am here."

Her arms tighten around his waist in response and they just sit there for a while, bathed in the harsh glare of the morning sun. And as Fíli feels Sigrid's breath hitch with the occasional, suppressed sob while from downstairs the muffled sound of Alva's weeping drifts up to them, there are two things he knows for certain. One is that he would lay down his own life for the woman in his arms without even a split second of hesitation. The other is that he must undertake that journey to Ered Luin. His kingdom needs to be strengthened, fortified, so that no one will even dare to attack them or their allies. So that the sons, the daughters, the husbands and wives, mothers, fathers, brothers and sisters won't have to die such pointless deaths anymore.

That is his responsibility as king and he cannot hide from it. And maybe, he reasons, it does not even stand in conflict with what he feels for Sigrid. To protect everyone means protecting her, after all. And that's what counts. That's his mission. Even if it tears his heart in two.


	24. Day 143

**Day 143**

"What a mess."

On the one hundred fourty-third day, Bard leans back in his chair and runs a hand over his tired face. He gets up and crosses over to the low table on which a young servant girl left some refreshments earlier, foregoing the jug of water to pour himself a glass of brandy. After knocking back the golden-brown liquid, he refills his own cup and a second one, which he passes to Fíli on his way back to his seat.

Fíli peers at the drink, the fumes rising from it enough already to make him feels a bit tipsy. He has yet to eat something and indulging in a drink of this potency is probably not a good idea. He shrugs and has a sip anyway, hoping that this will loosen the tight knot in his chest somewhat.

Bard has come to stand beside the window, looking out at the streets below. They are in a room on the first floor of the large, official building where Bard has set up his administrative offices since the battle. Nothing about the rooms here is in any way pompous, all furniture and what little decorations there are being entirely practical and modest. They call Bard their king, but one wouldn't recognize him as such just by looking. A king without a palace, a king without a crown. But then again, if there is one thing that Fíli has learned about what it means to be a king in the more recent past, then it is that such trifles matter very little.

Now, said King of Dale wears a dismayed frown upon his brow that makes him look older than he presumably is while he watches his people clean up the reminders of last night's attack.

"A good portion of our stocks have been rendered useless. This will make trade very difficult in the months to come."

"There is no need to worry about upholding your end of the bargain with regard to the transactions we have already agreed upon," Fíli says. "Erebor will happily supply Dale without expecting anything in return until you have recovered from the attack."

Bard inclines his head gratefully. Fíli knows enough of the man to know that accepting gifts does not come easily to him, and it is a testimony to his qualities as king that he is able to overcome his pride in favor of the well-being of his people. "I cannot thank you enough," Bard returns. "Not just for your offer, but for everything you have done. I shudder to think what would have happened if you had not come to Dale's aid. I am forever in your debt."

"I did not do it because I wanted you to owe me," Fíli says softly, staring down at the contents of his cup.

Bard turns around to lean with his back against the windowpane and Fíli looks up to find the bowman studying him intently. "No, I believe that is not your way, is it?"

Fíli doesn't really know what to say to that and fights the urge to fidget under Bard's scrutiny. He settles for a noncommittal grunt.

"You are quite different from your uncle," Bard remarks after a moment of tense silence, his tone not indicating whether or not he believes that to be a good thing.

"The world I was raised in was different from the one in which Thorin grew up," Fíli says, forcing himself to meet Bard's gaze. Over the past few weeks, maintaining an image of calmness and composure during meetings with the bowman has become increasingly difficult for Fíli – for obvious reasons – and he has to make an effort to not give Bard any reason to become suspicious of his behavior. "Thorin was haunted by many ghosts. He was braver than anyone I ever knew, but sometimes even he was overpowered by the terrors of his own past. He would have been a good king, despite all that – or maybe even because of it. I haven't made up my mind about that yet."

Bard absorbs this for a moment. "We all have our hauntings. I do, and so do you, I should venture to say. But we mustn't forget to live in the present – especially when said present demands us to take action quickly. Which is what you did last night. I do not mean to disrespect his memory, but I have my doubts about whether your uncle would have done the same thing. To get through a night like this, with so few casualties... only your lack of hesitation made that possible."

Again, Fíli finds himself staring at his drink. It's true what Bard says, of course. Fewer than he would have dared to hope were killed in the attack and most of those injured are likely to make a full recovery. Still, he finds it difficult to accept the Bowman's praise, the image of Jorund's lifeless eyes staring back at him haunting him whenever he closes his eyes. "There was a considerable amount of luck involved in what happened last night," he admits. "Another time we might not be quite so fortunate."

Returning to his desk, Bard sinks back into his seat, his expression grim as he rests his chin on his folded hands. "What do you propose? I know that the city guard is not up to Erebor's standards by far, but I fear that we are already at our limits as it is. The people of Lake-town weren't fighters and it will be a long time yet before they can hope to defend the city by themselves."

"I know that," Fíli returns. "And it is but one more reason why Erebor needs to strengthen its forces. So that we can fight not only for ourselves, but for you as well."

Bard leans back in his chair, pinning Fíli with a long, hard stare. "How?"

Fíli shifts and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees while he explains. "I am going to travel back to the Blue Mountains to convince the remainder of my kinfolk to move here. Not only will that bring us strength in numbers, but in experience and influence as well. Some of those families are very old and have ties into other houses scattered all over Middle Earth."

Bard considers this for a moment. "If they are so old and wise, shouldn't they have come to that conclusion on their own and have moved over here already? I thought the kingdom of Erebor was the pride of all Dwarves."

"It is," Fíli concedes. "Or rather it was. It's more complicated than that, I'm afraid. People were already reluctant to follow Thorin, but after he reclaimed the Mountain they would have done so without hesitation. However, Thorin is not here anymore to restore Erebor to the glory which the Dwarves of his generation remember. All they have left now is me."

"And that isn't enough for them? You are your uncle's legitimate heir, after all."

"I am – but I am also very young by my people's standard and have yet to prove my worth to them. Which is why I must undertake this journey in person – to show them that I am not merely a child that cowers on his uncle's throne, scared to act."

"I see," Bard says. "I know a thing or two about what it means to grow up with the shadow of your ancestors hovering over you. Your plan certainly has its merits – with one pitfall, however. How long are you going to be absent for?"

"Two months, give or take. That is, if we don't run into trouble along the way. Which is not entirely unlikely, given my family's long history of misfortunes." He scratches at the side of his neck, remembering for a moment the many times he and the others were being hunted or taken captive during their journey from the Shire to the Lonely Mountain. "Obviously I will take as few men with me as possible. Still, I am aware that this leaves Dale more vulnerable than it already is."

"That cannot be helped, I'm afraid." Bard reaches up to briefly massage his temple with his fingertips. Fíli can sympathize with him – after all, the what-ifs of this plan have been giving him a headache for more than a fortnight. "He won't like it, but maybe I can persuade Thranduil to assist with the protection of the city."

Fíli inclines his head to hide the small frown at the mention of the Elvenking. "That would be rather helpful indeed." He pauses, biting his lip until his curiosity gets the better of him. "What is the old elk-lover up to these days?"

His flippant choice of words earns him a raised eyebrow from Bard, but he thinks he can see the corner of his mouth twitch. "I couldn't say," the bowman says. "He has truly shut himself off from the rest of the world these past couple of months. Now, he seems open to resume our relationship. Legolas has been to Dale several times in the past few weeks and if things had gone as planned, I would be sitting down with the Elvenking right now to negotiate trade between Mirkwood and Dale."

"Probably ran out of wine," Fíli remarks with a little sniff.

"Then he will have to do without it for a little longer still after that stunt which your two young friends pulled."

Fíli winces, remembering the avalanche of wine barrels which Flad and Thad let loose on the goblins and the resulting mess. "I would apologize for them if they hadn't done it with Dale's best interest at heart."

Bard chuckles. "Don't worry about it. Still, those two are real troublemakers, aren't they?"

"You have no idea," Fíli says, not bothering to hide his fond smile.

They sit together in comfortable silence for a bit, each lost in thought while they sip their drinks. Eventually, Bard sets down his cup and heaves a weary sigh.

"I ought to get back outside, help with the clean-up. Unless there was something else you wanted to discuss?"

Fíli forces himself to keep breathing slowly and regularly, hoping that his ears have not gone red from his sudden impulse to blurt out that he has secretly been seeing the bowman's daughter. That wouldn't accomplish anything, would it? Except for a broken nose, maybe, and a lot of expletives directed at him. No, he will have to carry this particular secret with him on his journey across Middle Earth.

He shakes his head, trying to clear his throat as inconspicuously as possible. "I, too, must return to my people. We will speak more once all arrangements have been made?"

Bard inclines his head as Fíli rises to his feet. "I assume you will want to begin your journey as soon as possible?"

"It wouldn't do to wait too long," Fíli says, even though the thought of leaving soon nearly chokes him with sorrow. "Two weeks ought to suffice to get everything in order, three at the most."

"Very well. We will meet in due course, then."

Regarding their conversation as finished, Fíli makes for the door, where he is halted in his tracks by Bard calling out to him once again.

"I was meaning to ask you – whatever did you do to Legolas to make him avoid you like the plague? I could never persuade him to accompany me to Erebor when he stayed here, but all I ever got out of him were some incoherent mumblings about how he's had enough of your kind for a lifetime at least."

Fíli raises his eyebrows. "The Elf-Prince? I cannot think of any way in which I have personally wronged him, no." He mulls this over for a moment. "Well, admittedly me and the others did cause quite a bit of destruction when we escaped his father's dungeons. Also, Thorin liked to insult the Elvenking and his entire line at every chance he got. Oh, and my brother tried to steal the princeling's lass, I suppose."

Bard blinks slowly. "Alright. Forget that I even asked."

After dipping his head in the Bowman's direction to hide his smirk, Fíli turns to leave. This time, Bard does not stop him, and he hurries outside, grateful for the change of air. Under different circumstances, he might have enjoyed his conversations with Bard, but as things stand, they always take their toll on his nerves.

He walks slowly on his way to the meeting point he agreed upon with Dwalin earlier, enjoying a few moments to himself. All day he has been rushing about, helping tend to those who have been injured in the attack, cleaning up the mess. Now, after his talk with Bard, he feels positively drained and in bad need of a bath and an early night. However, he fears that the hardest part of the day is still before him.

As he exits Dale in the company of some of his men about half an hour later, this suspicion is proven correct when he notices a little flutter of movement somewhere to their left. He suppresses a sad sigh and rides up to Dwalin.

"There is one more matter which I must attend to," he says. "Will you lead the others back to Erebor? See to it that they are fed and get some rest. It has been one hell of a day."

Dwalin keeps his eyes on the road even as he raises a skeptical eyebrow. "Are you certain that you do not want me to wait for you instead?"

"No, please go with them. I might need some time alone after this," Fíli says, deciding to be as honest as he can afford to be with his friend.

Dwalin grunts in agreement and if Fíli did not know that doing so would in all likelihood earn him a punch to his gut, he might have hugged the older Dwarf for not asking any questions. Instead, he watches while Dwalin quickens his pony's pace, putting himself at the head of the small convoy traveling back to Erebor.

When his men are scarcely more than black dots on the long road connecting Dale and Erebor, Fíli gives a gentle tug on Arran's reins, leading him off the main road. The sun is rather low in the sky already, and he has to squint as he draws closer to the abandoned guardhouse in order to discern the figure leaning against the open doorway. Sigrid's arms are wrapped tightly around her midsection, as if she is trying to keep herself warm. Only the weather isn't cold at all – in fact, it has been an uncommonly hot day for the middle of April.

Without having to think twice about it, Fíli slides out of his saddle and crosses over to her, pulling her against him with his arms around her waist. She leans into his embrace and rests her head on his shoulder, the air rushing out of her lungs in a shudder.

Fíli reaches up with one hand to cup the back of her neck, stroking the smooth, warm skin and turning his face to press a kiss against the side of her jaw. He can smell the tang of dried blood and dust and sweat on her as well as a few more subtle, herbal notes, and knows without a doubt that she has been on her feet since sunrise, tending to the wounded, giving help wherever it was needed.

"Come," he says, "sit. You can barely hold yourself upright."

She allows him to help her settle herself on the ground, her back against the outside wall of the decrepit building and her knees drawn up against her chest. He slides down the wall beside her, coming to sit close enough to her for their arms to be touching. She scoots a little lower still, so that she can lay her head on his shoulder again and he reaches out to lace his fingers through hers, noticing several scrapes and callouses on her normally so smooth skin.

"You push yourself too hard," he comments, raising her knuckles to his lips to press a kiss to them.

"Hmm, so do you," she mutters, the almost sleepy quality of her voice making him smile. Not for the first time he wishes desperately that he could stay with her and just rest and not think about anything else for a change.

A few minutes pass where neither of them speaks and Fíli wonders whether Sigrid really has fallen asleep. Her voice, when it comes, startles him out of his musings on how he is supposed to tell her what he knows he must say before they part ways today.

"You are going to do something awfully brave and honorable that is bound to break my silly heart, aren't you?"

He flinches and angles his upper body away from her, so that he may see her face. With obvious reluctance, she lifts her head off his shoulder and meets his gaze, her jaw squared like someone who is expecting a blow.

"Tell me."

He sighs, his forehead crumpling with grief over what he is about to reveal. There is no backing out of this, now, so he might as well get on with it. "I need to travel to the Blue Mountains to convince the Dwarves who still live there to follow me to Erebor. I do not want to do it and had hoped to find another way, but after last night I know that I must. We cannot go on like this; Erebor is weak and it cannot afford to be. Not when there are other fates such as those of the people of Dale at stake as well."

During his little speech, his eyes have strayed from hers. Now he forces himself to meet her gaze. She is paler than usual, but two red circles have appeared high on her cheeks and her eyes glitter as she asks, "How long have you known?" And then, when he drops his head to once again stare at the floor in both shame and dismay, "No, don't tell me. That day at the river – this is what was bothering you, isn't it? Why didn't you tell me then?"

"I did not want to hurt you," he admits quietly. "I thought—I hadn't made up my mind yet as to whether or not I would go."

"Still, you should have told me. Is that why I saw so little of you over the last two weeks?"

Her eyes shine with hurt and Fíli feels more ashamed of himself than ever. "I cannot even begin—I should have told you, yes. And I was going to. Today was supposed to be the day where I spoke to you about it, where we talked things through. And then, this morning, I realized that I must go, no matter what either of us wants." He pauses and then adds quietly, "No matter if it breaks _my_ heart as well."

Sigrid does not speak for what seems like an awfully long time. Fíli still clutches her hand in his, holding onto it for dear life. To his dismay, her fingers are limp in his.

"You are angry with me," he says eventually when she still has not said anything.

Her eyes remain fixed on the horizon where the sun is preparing to disappear behind the jagged edges of the Misty Mountains in the distance. "I am not angry with you for going," she says. "You are right – we cannot put our own desires before the needs of our people and if you believe that your best chance to improve our situation depends on you making this journey, then you must go." She pauses to withdraw her hand from his and brush some dirt off her skirt. "I wish you hadn't treated me like a child, though, by keeping this from me."

Fíli's heart sinks. He knows how much she hates to be left out of things, to be patronized because of her young age. Which, he now realizes, is exactly what he has done. "I never meant for you to feel that way. I was—I was a bloody coward, alright?"

"Why?" she demands. "This isn't too terrible. You won't be gone forever, will you?"

"No, but... It will be two months at least. Maybe more."

She laughs at that, but it holds no mirth. "Two months? I would wait for you for much longer than that. Surely you must know that?"

"I—yes, I suppose I do, but still…" He fidgets under her scrutiny, not knowing what to say. Now that they are finally discussing it, his worries about the whole matter do appear a little blown out of proportion.

"Were you planning to take this prolonged absence as an opportunity to end things between us?"

Sigrid's question catches him off guard and he snaps his head up to look at her, ignoring the painful crack in his neck as he does so. "What? No! How could you even think that?"

She's gone back to picking at nonexistent lint on her clothing. "I just thought... well, I am not unaware that being with me will not exactly cause your people to look favorably upon you. And you just said yourself how important it is to have them follow you..."

Her voice trails off. She's still not looking at him and Fíli stares at her in horror – horror at what disastrously wrong conclusions his secretive behavior has led her to draw. He pushes away from the wall, crouching down on his knees in front of her instead. He reaches for her hand once more, gently rubbing his thumb across the back of it.

"If either of us ought to be worried about what people will think when they find out about us, it should be you," he says. When she finally looks up at him, a surprised frown creasing her forehead, he adds, "People are going to say all kinds of fouls things about us. That I don't deserve you. That I will be your ruin. I don't care about that, not for my sake, but I hate the thought that they will cause you pain with their careless words. And as for the more political dimension of my decisions... what I was really hoping for was that by undertaking this journey, by strengthening my kingdom and stabilizing my reign, I might end up in a position where my choice of who I want to share my life with will not draw the same kind of attention it would do now, when I still need to prove my worth."

It takes her a moment to process his words and when the meaning behind them registers with her, a gentle blush creeps across her cheeks. "Share your life with?" she asks shyly, her fingers finally tightening around his in a tentative hold.

He allows himself to relax a little. "Well, unless you had other plans, that is."

The blush in her cheeks remains, but she manages a teasing smile. "Oh, I'd have to see if I can fit that into my otherwise very busy schedule," she says in a lofty tone.

Seeing that it does not seem that likely that he will get punched for it anymore, Fíli reaches out to poke her in the ribs for her little joke. She squirms and a little giggle escapes her lips, which in turn causes him to chuckle. Afterwards they sit in silence for a little while, their fingers still entwined in Sigrid's lap.

"I will miss you," Sigrid says eventually, her tone a little less light than it was mere moments ago. "Terribly so."

Fíli swallows against a lump in his throat and raises himself up on his knees, leaning forward far enough that he can capture her lips with his. He kisses her deeply and without restraint, seeking to offer comfort rather than passion. Sigrid's hands come up to cradle his face, and he leans unto her touch, sighing against her mouth when her fingers tangle in his locks, pulling him closer.

He breaks their kiss after a few more blissful seconds, the smile on his lips rather rueful. "If it hadn't been for those blasted goblins, we would be up at the Mountain right now, with no one to disturb us until tomorrow."

"Hmm, yes, they are quite an impertinent race, aren't they," she says with a smile of her own. Her expression turns a little more thoughtful and she cocks her head to one side. "Although I am not sure whether I would have forgiven you for your secretiveness quite so easily if I wasn't so awfully worn out after last night."

The blow that her words deliver to his heart is well-deserved and Fíli hangs his head with a renewed surge of shame. But then he looks up again, his eyes twinkling with a flutter of hope. "But I am forgiven?"

Sigrid gives a little huff and pulls him closer once more, claiming his lips. "You are," she says when they break apart. "You're as stubborn as they come, and I have an inkling that this shall not be the last time we will have a disagreement such as this. But I do forgive you."

"That is so much more than I would have dared to hope for, you splendid girl," he mutters just before kissing her again, silencing any protest that she might have made. For all his flaws, all the mistakes he keeps making and all the baggage he carries around with himself, he must have done something right along the way if he has somehow managed to deserve her.

Splendid girl, indeed.

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

_A/N: If you've read The Gift you already knew that Fíli would eventually go on this journey and why he must do so. One more chapter and then we'll send him on his merry way. Thanks for reading!_


	25. Day 156

**Day 156**

Dusk on the one hundred fifty-sixth day since the battle finds Fíli at his window, overlooking the lands at the foot of the mountain. Daylight is fading fast and soon there will be nothing to see for him except his own reflection in the windowpane. Still, he remains frozen in his spot, his eyes roaming over the landmarks below that were so foreign to him not long ago but that have since become the backdrop for some rather fundamental developments in his life.

There is no way to know for certain whether tonight isn't the last time that he gets to look at them. Tomorrow, he will set out for Ered Luin and even if there is no more Pale Orc that could hunt him down together with his minions, the number of threats that he and his men might run into on this journey makes it a risky undertaking at best. Goblins, stone giants, trolls, giant spiders... one more horrid than the other.

Fíli exhales slowly, his hand sliding into his pocket to touch the object hidden there. He clenches his fist, sharp metal edges digging into his skin. A few months ago, he would have jumped at the chance to escape from the mountain. Now his heart aches at the thought of leaving. But go he must – everything's been settled, everyone's prepared. There is nothing left for him to do now.

Aside from one thing, he thinks with a nervous flutter in his chest when a tentative knock sounds through his chambers.

He turns around at the same moment that the door opens and Sigrid slips through, closing it behind her with only the faintest of clicks.

"You made it," he greets her with a relieved smile. "I was beginning to think that you couldn't get away."

She grimaces as she moves closer. "It was rather more difficult than I had hoped," she admits. "But I wouldn't have let anything keep me from coming here tonight. It is bad enough that we barely saw each other these last few weeks."

Fíli grunts his agreement. The days since the goblin raid have been long and tedious, filled with meetings during which he and his council planned the journey to Ered Luin and organized life at Erebor during his absence. On most nights he would have wished for nothing more than to fall into Sigrid's embrace. Unfortunately, though, Bard has taken to some rather excessive vigilance in the weeks since the attack, the thought that the last time he turned his back his daughters were almost murdered in their beds making him very reluctant to let them out of his sight. It's understandable, really, but rather inconvenient if you are trying to conduct a secret relationship with one of said daughters.

"How did you manage to shake your father off?" Fíli asks curiously, leaning into Sigrid's embrace when her arms encircle his waist from behind. Her chin comes to rest on his shoulder and in their pale reflection in the window glass he can see a bashful grin touch her lips.

"By claiming to be plagued by certain female ailments and retiring early," she confesses. "That one always works with Da when I want to be left alone – he's much too scared of doing something wrong to venture anywhere near me until the morning at the very least."

Fíli grins. "I see. Finally something that the great slayer of dragons is afraid of."

Sigrid huffs in mild amusement. "Terrified, really. I just need to be careful not to use that particular excuse too often. For tonight, though, we ought to be safe."

"Hmm." Fíli hums contentedly as Sigrid nuzzles his neck, his hands coming up to cover hers. "And Tilda?"

"Still planning our wedding," Sigrid says with an exasperated sigh. "But she's kept her promise and hasn't said anything about us to either Da or Bain. She won't betray me."

"That's reassuring, then." Fíli has been rather busy these past two weeks, but that does not mean that he did not find the time to worry about an enraged Bard appearing on his doorstep. While it is true that he won't be anywhere near Dale come tomorrow, he would not put it past the Bowman to hunt down his sorry ass at the other end of Middle Earth if he found out about what he and his older daughter have been up to. And even if he didn't come after him, it would not be fair to leave Sigrid to deal with the fallout of their affair all by herself. So, yes, it's a relief to learn that their secret is safe for now, even if Fíli cannot claim to be particularly proud of himself for all this sneaking about.

Pushing away those thoughts for now, he turns in Sigrid's embrace and tilts his head back to look at her. She's done something with her hair, he thinks, that makes it even more shiny than usual and she has pulled the soft curls back into a bun at the nape of her neck. Her eyes are bright as he reaches up a hand to twirl a loose strand of hair around his finger, and she turns her head slightly, brushing her lips against the inside of his wrist in a featherlight touch. A pleasant shiver runs up his spine, and he leans up to bring his lips to hers.

The sweet taste of her makes it very difficult to maintain a semblance of self-control, but Fíli forces himself to keep their kiss rather chaste nevertheless. There is something he wants to say to her, and he's not sure whether he will still find the courage to do so later.

He steps back, trailing his hands down her arms to link his fingers with hers. His face feels warm – he has little experience with things like this and cannot quite shake the irrational fear that she might laugh at him.

"I have something for you," he finally manages to say, releasing one of her hands to slide his suddenly rather sweaty palm into his pocket. "I—I wish it were a ring," he stammers, hoping not to have raised false expectations on her part, "but we both know it cannot be. Not now, anyway. In its place, though, I want you to have this."

He holds out his hand, a delicate silver cuff resting on his palm. Except for a small green gem that has been set into it, its surface is perfectly smooth and has been polished to perfection. It is a simple and elegant piece without any unnecessary adornments. While he worked on it, Fíli felt assured that the simplicity of the bracelet would accentuate Sigrid's unaffected beauty much better than a more heavily decorated piece could. Now, he experiences a sudden bout of insecurity, hoping that she does not mistake his intention for thoughtlessness or poor taste.

He need not have worried. Sigrid's smile, when she reaches out to run her fingertip along the smooth edge of his gift, is unmistakably one of joy. "This is… it's perfect," she says. "May I?"

"Go on. It's not much, but it's yours."

Carefully, she picks up the piece of jewelry, turning it over in the fading light to examine it more closely. When her eyes fall upon the inside of the bracelet, a small crease forms between her brows as she tries to decipher what has been engraved there.

"I thought runes would be a bit safer lest anyone other than you should happen to see them," Fíli explains, feeling his cheeks heat up again.

Still smiling, Sigrid runs her thumb over the small characters concealed inside the bracelet. "What does it say?"

Fíli clears his throat, his eyes fixed on the bracelet as he answers. "Always and forever."

Alright, so maybe his voice really did get a little tight just then. Sigrid, however, has the decency not to call him out on it and clasps his hand with the one that is not holding the bracelet instead, squeezing tightly. "Thank you," she whispers and Fíli realizes with a start that she is close to tears.

Quickly, he reaches up and cups her jaw, pressing a rather breathless kiss to her lips. "No tears," he mutters. "Not yet." Saying goodbye will be excessively painful for them both, but for the moment all he wants is to forget about his duty and their shared heartache. He takes the silver cuff from Sigrid's hands once more and reaches for her left wrist. "Here," he says. "Allow me."

He slips the bracelet over her wrist and then slides it up her forearm until it disappears beneath the sleeve of her blouse. "Like this you will be able to wear it without anyone noticing and feeling compelled to ask questions."

She nods in understanding, reaching out with her right hand to trace the edges of his gift through the fabric of her blouse. "You put a lot of thought into this."

He flashes her a rather self-conscious grin and wraps his arms around her waist, pulling her closer. "I did not sleep very well those past two weeks, so I've had a lot of time to turn things over in my head."

Resting her arms on his shoulders, Sigrid returns his grin, her eyes twinkling. "I hope you don't mind losing still a little more sleep tonight."

"Not one bit," he mumbles as he leans up to capture her lips with his.

She sighs against his mouth as their kiss deepens and Fíli reflexively tightens his embrace. He's never been all that good with words, but for once he feels confident that Sigrid is perfectly aware of just how deep his feelings for her run without him having to say anything. They stay like this for quite some time, darkness slowly enveloping them while they take their time caressing each other, pretending, for once, that there is no need for them to hurry.

When Sigrid breaks their kiss to trail her lips along his jaw, nipping at the sensitive skin just below his ear, he angles his head slightly to grant her better access while he runs his fingers up and down her back, tracing the slight curve of her spine. The only light illuminating his chambers now is issued by the fireplace which he has lit immediately after his return from dinner and shadows dance across the two of them in their spot by the window.

"Take me to bed," Sigrid murmurs into his ear.

Fíli chuckles lightly. "I had no plans to stand here all night, don't worry."

She laughs quietly at that before pressing another kiss to his neck. "That is not what I meant." Her voice has grown huskier and Fíli is quite certain that he would find a blush creeping across her cheeks if he looked. "Take me to bed," she says again, more insistent now.

He loosens his embrace and pulls back, his eyes darting to hers. When the meaning of her words registers with him, he barely manages to suppress a shiver, the thrill of what she is asking for sending his blood boiling despite himself.

He briefly closes his eyes, fighting for his composure. "Haven't we been over this already?"

"I asked. You said no. I'm not sure that counts."

When Fíli opens his eyes, Sigrid has stepped closer once more, her own eyes filled with a dangerous sort of resolution. He swallows audibly but does not dare to move away as she lowers her lips to his, molding her body to his with her arms wrapped around his neck.

"You are making this very hard," he gets out once they break apart, both more than a little breathless.

She has the nerve to smirk, pressing even closer to him. "I can feel that."

"Temptress," he growls before devouring her mouth with his once again. They kiss with abandon and Fíli feels himself slipping, his grasp onto his self-control weakening rapidly. Somehow, though, he manages to yank himself back from the brink and he breaks their kiss, stepping back to put as much distance between them as he can without letting her out of his embrace.

"We can't," he says mournfully. "It's—it wouldn't be right."

In blatant disregard of his attempt at creating a modicum of distance between them, Sigrid follows his backward movement. "So you've told me already, on that first night. Wouldn't you agree, though, that since then things have changed rather dramatically?"

"I—yes—maybe—" Fíli stammers, struggling to form a coherent thought in the face of her rather fierce determination to reduce him to a nervous wreck. He casts his eyes down and takes a fortifying breath. "It does not matter, though, does it? It is too great a risk. What if—what if there are consequences? I will not leave you behind to face something like that all by yourself."

She puts her palms to his face then, angling it upwards to make him look at her. "You are not wrong to think like that and I am certainly not laughing at you for it. However, I am confident enough in my knowledge of both the healing arts and midwifery to say that the likelihood of what you suggest happening today is all but nonexistent." When he looks doubtful still, she adds, "Or would you like me to fetch Óin to confirm that for you?"

A bark of laughter erupts from his lips at that particular thought. "Mahal, no, he would probably use the opportunity to launch into some sort of lecture on things I most definitely do not wish to discuss with him." He resumes a more serious expression. "I do trust your proficiency, but still..."

He trails off, holding himself rigidly when Sigrid leans down to press the ghost of a kiss against the corner of his mouth. "Please," she whispers. "Neither of us can know what the future holds in store for us. If—" her voice hitches a little here, but she shakes her head and continues, "—if I cannot have anything at all, let me at least have this."

Of all the things she could have said, this is the one that makes it impossible for Fíli to deny her anything, and she probably knows it. And so, when her mouth finds his again, he does not resist, parting his lips to allow her to explore him with her tongue and doing the same to her.

"Fine," he sighs when they break apart but remain pressed up against one another, their foreheads touching. "If we're going to do this, though, we are going to do it right."

And with that he bends down to sneak an arm around the back of her knees, hoisting her up into his arms and proceeding to carry her towards his bed. Sigrid giggles. "And what, pray tell, constitutes 'right' in this particular context?"

He deposits her on the edge of his mattress and kneels to begin unlacing her boots, tugging them off her feet. "'Right' means not doing things by half measure. And not in a hurry. 'Right' means that I am not letting you out of this bed before I have reduced you to the quivering mess that you are working so relentlessly on turning me into."

That last part is said with a teasing wink, but it does not escape Fíli's notice that Sigrid's eyes widen momentarily at his threat, her breath hitching with what can only be excitement. "Alright then," she says rather meekly, for once not teasing him in return.

With a small smirk playing around his lips, Fíli proceeds to pull down her stockings, taking his time while he skims the freshly exposed skin with his fingertips. He finishes his task by pressing a soft kiss to the inside of each knee, relishing in the small gasp which escapes Sigrid's lips at the action. Pushing himself off the ground, he crawls onto the bed beside her, toeing off his own boots in the process. He comes to kneel behind her, coaxing her to lean against him with a hand on her shoulder. With his other hand he reaches around her body and slowly begins to unfasten the buttons on her waistcoat, one by one. By the time she shrugs out of the sleeveless garment, he has begun to caress the side of her neck with his lips, nipping and licking at her delicate skin, and her head is resting against his collarbone, most of her weight now supported by him.

Her blouse is next, and even though he has both seen and touched the parts of her body which it conceals, Fíli's hands tremble ever so slightly as he sets to work on the small buttons. Lifting his hands to her shoulders when he's done, he pushes the blouse down her arms, following at least part of its progress with a series of kisses. As the blouse joins their boots and her waistcoat on the floor, Sigrid shifts on the mattress, turning sideways so that she can look at him.

"I fell at a bit of a disadvantage here," she says, reaching up to run a finger along the neckline of his shirt.

"My eyes do not perceive anything even remotely disadvantageous," Fíli remarks, but loses no time to follow up on her unspoken request, reaching up to tug the tunic over his head without bothering with the lacings. "Better?"

"Hmm," Sigrid hums distractedly, reaching out to run her palm over his bared chest. Her hand travels upward, her fingers weaving into his hair, toying with one of the beads fastened into it. Her eyes flit to his. "May I?" she asks, rolling the trinket between her fingertips.

"You will find that there are few requests I can deny you when you are sitting in front of me like this." He gestures towards her bare upper body and she blushes but makes no attempt to hide herself from him. Instead, she turns around more fully, lifting both hands to work on his hair.

One by one she undoes his braids, running her fingers through the loose strands to smoothen them out. At first, he finds himself rather distracted by her nakedness, but eventually he closes his eyes, focusing solely on the sensation of her fingers on his scalp, her actions intimate in ways which he cannot put into words.

When she is done, she leans in to kiss him, rousing him from his trancelike state. He opens his eyes to find her looking at him with a loving smile. "It just occurred to me that the last time I have seen you like this, with your hair all undone and no coats and furs and leather to hide behind, was on the day we first met."

He chuckles. "Well, I _was_ wearing a shirt then. Also, I most fervently hope that I smell better today than I did after climbing out of your toilet."

She laughs and leans closer to place a kiss against the side of his jaw, inhaling deeply. "You most certainly do," she whispers, her breath against his skin making him shiver.

Unable to restrain himself any longer, he places his hands on her bare waist, pulling her into his lap. She does not resist, her knees coming to rest on either side of his hips. His insistence on taking things slow has kept his own excitement somewhat under control so far, but now the feeling of having her sit astride him, her firm, round breasts pressed against the planes of his chest, sends a surge of want through him that makes it very difficult to adhere to his own rules.

Sigrid appears to experience a similar predicament, judging by the way she gasps and pushes down against him, seeking to create what little friction is possible with her bunched up skirts and his trousers still in the way. Fíli's head falls forward, his responding moan muffled against her shoulder.

"Later," he murmurs, deciding that a change in his course of action is in order if he wants to keep his earlier promise and stop them from rushing into this.

Raising himself off the mattress, he guides Sigrid onto her back, leaning over her to run his hands across her upper body, exploring, caressing. He pauses when he reaches the waistband of her skirt. During all their encounters she has always had some items of her (or, once, his) clothing covering her, so this will be yet another line he will cross today. And even though it causes his mouth to go rather dry all of a sudden, he tells himself that it ought not matter, that what he has already agreed to do will require a much, much greater deal of intimacy.

In the end, Sigrid takes that particular decision out of his hands by rather pointedly lifting her hips and arching an impatient eyebrow at him. He hides his amused smirk by lowering his lips to her neck, trailing a series of kisses down her body while he reaches around her waist to undo the fastenings on her skirt and proceeds to hook his thumb into the waistband, sliding both skirt and underskirt over her narrow waist and down her long legs.

As the garment falls to the floor in a rustle of fabric, Fíli takes a moment to appreciate the view before him. Kneeling between Sigrid's legs, he takes her hands in his when she reflexively raises them to cover herself. "Don't," he tells her, surprised at the rasp in his voice. "I want to see you. So that I have something to keep me warm during those long, lonely nights ahead of me."

She bites her lip in a bout of self-consciousness, but after a second or two she relaxes under his stare, entwining her fingers with his. "You'll have to do me that same favor, then."

He smiles while he leans forward, raising one of her hands above her head to pin it to the mattress as he lowers himself onto her, careful not to crush her beneath him. His hair, now completely loose and probably in a bit of a wild state, brushes against her bare skin and she shudders, her eyelids fluttering closed. "In a moment," he murmurs into her ear.

Releasing her other hand, he runs his fingers up her body, starting at her thigh, skimming over her hip and across her stomach until he is able to cup one of her breasts in his palm. A slight squeeze earns him a sharp gasp and when Sigrid arches her back off his bed, pressing her naked body against him more firmly, he, too, cannot suppress a rather brittle groan.

"Ah, you have no idea what you are doing to me," he mutters against the side of her neck before attacking the soft skin there with his lips and teeth.

"Show me, then," she demands, squirming beneath him until she succeeds at wrapping one leg around his hips, urging him to press himself against her.

"Oh, I will, don't worry."

And with that he lowers his head to take one of her already hardened nipples into his mouth and sucking hard. She cries out, her hands flying to his shoulders to steady herself.

"Do that again," she commands rather breathlessly, and he readily complies with her request, repeating his action from before and adding a flick of his tongue to it. "If that is what you meant by 'quivering mess', then fine, you win," she gasps, one of her hands fisting in his hair.

Fìli chuckles, the tickle of his breath causing goosebumps to rise on her flesh. "Oh no. We're not quite there yet."

He shifts his weight so that he is now lying only partly on top of her and runs a hand up and down the inside of her thigh a couple of times, allowing her a few moments to guess at his intention. Finally sliding his hand between her legs, he is somehow not surprised to find her slick with her need for him, her flesh hot and swollen beneath his fingers.

Her hips buck up against his hand as he applies more pressure, and he realizes that it would not take much more for him to send her over the edge. While the thought that he has this effect on her is very satisfying, he does have something else in mind for her still. Giving into a temptation he has denied himself in their previous encounters, Fíli carefully pushes a finger inside her. She hisses sharply at the intrusion, but a quick glance at the face assures him that the sound is not provoked by pain. Her eyes are still closed, her expression one of utter rapture.

Growing a little bolder, Fíli slowly eases a second finger into her, giving a small thrust. Sigrid's hands claw at his shoulders as she angles her hips to meet the movement of his hand. Encouraged and more than a little aroused by her reaction, Fíli continues pumping in and out of her, his own breathing becoming rather ragged as she writhes beneath him, her inner muscles clenching around his fingers erratically.

He can feel the tension building inside her even before her fingernails dig into shoulders as she cries out one more time. She comes undone in his arms and he leans up to swallow her soft moans with a kiss, continuing to stroke her with his fingers and spreading her own juices over her swollen flesh while the waves of her pleasure slowly ebb away.

It takes her a few moments, but then she is kissing him back, pulling him close with a sigh against his lips. Her whole body seems flushed and warm beneath his and Fíli figures that he won't get her into a more relaxed state than this.

Breaking their kiss, he raises himself on his arms so that he may look at her. "This _will_ hurt, I fear. There is nothing that I can do about that."

She reaches up and smoothes his hair back from his face, as if he is the one that needs comforting and not her. "I'm not afraid."

He nods. There is nothing he can say to argue with that, and the quiet certainty of her voice leaves him with no doubt that she is telling the truth. And either way – it is not as if he actually _wants_ to discourage her from what they are about to do.

Her hands have left his face and are traveling down his back, reaching the waistband of his trousers at the same moment that he undoes the buttons at their front. He shifts his weight onto his knees and she helps him push the garment over his hips and down his legs, eliciting a slight gasp from him as the coarse material brushes against his by now almost painful arousal. With his capacity for coherent thought steadily deteriorating, it takes him a moment to fully divest himself of the trousers and he grunts in embarrassed frustration, but then he's kneeling between his love's legs again without the annoying obstacle of clothing to separate them.

His heart is pounding in his chest as he crawls over her, conscious of every inch of skin where their bodies touch, even the smallest contact sending little bolts of lightning through his veins. He kisses her, as deeply and unhurriedly as he can manage when his breath is threatening to forsake him. Sigrid parts her legs for him, just a little, and then he's close, so maddeningly close to completing what they began several weeks ago, in this very room.

Unable to deny both her and himself what they have both wanted for so long, he reaches down between their bodies and, angling his hips forward, guides himself into her, biting his lip with his effort to take things slow.

Fully immersed in her delicious warmth, he stills, allowing her to get used to the feeling of having him inside her. Lifting his head, he finds her eyes closed, a light furrow between her brows the only indication that she is experiencing any discomfort. Her silence worries him, slightly.

He brushes a lock of hair from her face. "Are you alright?"

She opens her eyes and it takes her a moment to focus, but when she does, she gives him a small smile. "Yes," she breathes. "Yes, I believe I am."

He leans down to kiss her, swallowing her low moan when he pulls back, only a tiny bit, and then gives a small thrust, careful not to use too much force. He does it again, and again, until he is sure that the noises she is making against his lips are not born of pain, but of pleasure. His arms are shaking by that time, the effort of keeping a firm lid on his mounting desire taking its toll.

Sigrid breaks their kiss then. "I really am fine," she assures him. "Don't hold back… Please."

She accompanies her words by raising her legs to wrap around his waist, angling her hips upward to meet his next thrust. The groan that issues from somewhere deep inside his throat at this encouragement startles Fíli, but by now he is too far gone to feel embarrassed. Instead, he finally permits himself to fall into a more natural rhythm, driving himself into Sigrid's body more forcefully than before.

Warmth spreads through his limbs, and as a burning heat coils somewhere below his navel, stars erupt in his vision. He closes his eyes, desperate to prolong this wonderful, wonderful thing between them even as every inch of his body begs for some sort of release, for a relief of the pressure building within him.

He uses what little strength he has left to push himself up on his arms so that he may look at Sigrid's face. Her skin is damp with sweat, as is his, and she is biting her lower lip with enough force to dent the skin. He cannot take his eyes off her. He changes his rhythm again, slowing and deepening his thrusts. Sigrid's eyes, that had been closed, fly open as he hits what must be a very sensitive spot indeed.

"Oh—oh, yes, that's just—that's just—"

She never gets to finish her sentence, her rather forceful release catching both her and Fíli by surprise and she cries out helplessly, her nails digging into his upper arms. Fíli manages one more thrust and then his world tilts as he spills himself into her with a roar followed by hoarse whispers of her name.

When he comes to his senses once more, his arms have given out and he is lying on top of Sigrid, their racing hearts conducting a dance of their own where their chests are pressed together. He nuzzles her neck, incapable of a more conscious effort such as kissing her yet.

Once he becomes more aware of his surroundings he shifts, pulling out of her so that he may lie on his side next to her rather than on top of her. She follows his movement, rolling over to bury her face against him.

"I cannot believe you made me wait so long for this," she chides, but he can hear the happy smile in her voice.

"It was the prudent thing to do," he reminds her, slipping an arm underneath her shoulder so that he can pull her against him more firmly.

Her small huff tickles the skin at the base of his throat. "Please allow me to discourage you from exercising too much prudence in the future. When it comes to me, at the very least."

He sniffs with feigned affront. "It is generally considered a valuable trait in a king."

"Well, then I am glad you were able to put your rigid principles to rest for at least a little while, your majesty." She pulls back, angling her head so that he can see her cheeky grin.

He chuckles. "So am I." He kisses her then, deeply and without hurry.

After a few moments, Sigrid breaks their kiss with a happy sigh and Fíli rolls onto his back, pulling her with him so that her head comes to rest on his shoulder. Unsurprisingly, her hair has come quite undone during their most recent activities, and he enjoys toying with the silky strands, wrapping them around his fingers again and again while he listens to the sound of her breathing. It gets cold, after a while, the fire in his hearth having mostly died down and the layer of sweat covering both their skins not doing much to increase their comfort. Reluctantly Fíli sits up, helping them both to wriggle under the furs and blankets covering his bed.

When he lies back down, Sigrid is on her side, her face pillowed on the crook of her arm. He mirrors her position, scooting down on his mattress so that they are almost lying nose to nose in the cocoon of warmth created by the covers. They spend some time just drinking in the sight of each other, smiling the sort of happy smiles only known to two souls who happen to have found one another despite adverse circumstances.

Eventually, though, Fíli cannot hold the shadows in his mind at bay and the more sinister aspects of their meeting – the last, for many days – begin to weigh on his heart once more.

"What's wrong?" Sigrid asks him before he manages so much as a frown.

"I'm terrified," he admits, resisting the urge to turn onto his back and stare at the ceiling rather than her concerned face. "Terrified of the responsibility for the lives of those I'm bringing with me on this journey; terrified of what awaits me at its end. Most of all, I'm terrified of leaving you."

She scoots even closer on the mattress, bringing up a hand to cup his cheek in her palm. "I am not sure what to say regarding those first two, except that I have unconditional faith in both you and your ability to lead. Those who have failed to see that as of yet will come to do so soon. And as for me... I have spent my years leading a very dreary life indeed, waiting desperately for something to change, for some revelation as to what I was supposed to do with myself. Until the day when my father brought thirteen Dwarves and a Hobbit into our home." She shifts a little closer still, wrapping her hand around his where it rests on the mattress between them. "I have waited for so long, I think I can manage to wait for a little longer still now that I know what path I want to take and who I am going to walk it with. Two months may seem a long time now, yes. But I can promise you that when your return you will find me the same as I am now. Yours, unconditionally."

"_If _I return," he corrects her gloomily, unable yet to yield to the warmth that her words have instilled in his chest.

Her fingers absently trace the raised flesh of the scar Azog has given him. "You will," she insists, but Fíli can hear the underlying fear in her voice. She sighs, appearing to give herself a little shake and lifts her head off his chest to smile at him. "You are Fíli the Deathless, after all."

He rolls his eyes. "You've heard that one then." Despite his exasperation at being reminded of the silly nickname, a small smile of his own tugs at the corners of his mouth. "I shall try my best to live up to it."

"You had better," Sigrid murmurs sleepily, snuggling up against him once more. Fíli hugs her close, his fingers tracing random patterns on her bare skin beneath the covers. As her breathing evens out, he remains completely still, resolved to let her get some rest. The night ahead of them is young still and he has no intention of wasting it on sleep. However, he reflects with a wicked grin, gathering their strength for what they might get up to latter shan't hurt. And so he sinks deeper into his love's embrace, determined not to let the thought that this will be the last time he gets to do so for a long time spoil this wonderful night.


	26. Day 157

_A/N: Two chapters today to make up for the shortness of each. We're getting closer to the end, but there are still a handful of chapters left._

**Day 157**

When Fíli rides through the gates of Erebor on the one hundred fifty-seventh day, he does so with his head held high, an image of strength and confidence for the crowd that has gathered to see him off. And it's much less of an act than it used to be, not so very long ago.

He feels... good. Better than he has in ages. Certainly better than he has since the battle, and even before that, when first doubts about Thorin and the quest they had followed him on had begun to manifest themselves in his heart, he did not feel as assured of doing the right thing as he does today. It would be easy to blame this change in spirits on the events of the night before, but that would be a bit of an oversimplification. Yes – what happened between him and Sigrid has been magnificent, but that's not all there is to it, not by far.

What he feels for Sigrid, the love he carries in his heart for her – for if this isn't love, then what is? – it is not his weakness. He realizes this now. For months he believed that his feelings made him susceptible to attacks from the outside, that they distracted him from what he was supposed to be doing, and, most prominently, that he simply did not deserve to be this happy. Last night, when he finally allowed himself to be with Sigrid without restraint – he understood that _this_ is precisely what will give him the strength to endure any obstacles he has yet to face, that allowing himself this source of joy and warmth in a harsh, cruel world is the only thing that can help him come to terms with the things he's seen, the things he's done, and the things that will be expected of him in the years to come.

Let them call him sentimental. He couldn't care less. A few months ago, he might have wallowed in a certain amount of guilt over having crossed a line last night which he had promised himself he would not cross – not like this, anyway – but now doing so seems altogether pointless. He and Sigrid both know what they are to each other and there is absolutely nothing that is going to stop him from making her his for the whole world to see once he is finally in a position to do so. Their little indiscretion will cease to mean anything once that happens, and until then he has some extremely pleasant memories to carry him through any darkness he might encounter on his path.

A smile tugs at the corners of his lips as he revisits some of the memories of the last twelve hours, warmth coursing through him when he recall some of the things Sigrid let him do to her and her reactions to it. She kissed him goodbye just before dawn, when he was so completely relaxed, so utterly spent, that other than kissing her back deeply and lovingly, he wasn't capable of much else. No grand gestures, no soul-baring declarations.

"This is how I want to remember you," she whispered after her lips left his and he just blinked at her sleepily.

"Exhausted from our lovemaking to the extent that I can barely lift my head off my pillow?"

She lightly slapped him on his still bare chest for his deliberate denseness. "No, you scoundrel." She paused, her expression growing more tender. "Happy. Carefree. Without the lines of sorrow that grace your face far too often."

Her fingertips traced a now invisible crease between his eyebrows, and he took her hand in his, bringing her fingers to his lips. "It's all your doing," he assured her, his speech a little sluggish as sleep fought to claim him with all its might. "Without you, I would be one miserable Dwarf indeed."

"Then make sure to come home to me quickly, love. So that together we can count the many ways in which we can make each other happy," she whispered in his ear in return and the last thing he was aware of before he lost his struggle for consciousness was the flutter of her damp eyelashes against his cheek as she held him close one last time.

When he woke up not much later after a short but restful slumber, she had been gone, her familiar scent on the pillow next to his the only evidence that the night with her had not just been one long, glorious dream. That and the small, purple mark where his neck joined his shoulder, which Fíli discovered with no small amount of smug satisfaction when he sat down in front of his mirror to tame his wild mane.

"You appear to be in a rather good mood today."

Fíli is jilted back to the present when Thad appears at his right shoulder, a knowing grin plastered across his youthful face.

"It makes you wonder what it is exactly that has put His Grumpiness in such buoyant spirits," Flad throws in from his left, earning himself a scowl.

But no matter how hard he tries to maintain a stern expression in lieu of the brothers' teasing, Fíli soon finds that he cannot stop another grin from spreading across his lips. Flad erupts into a roar of laughter.

"Ha! I knew it! I take it that if I were to ride to Dale on this fine morning, I would find a young lass with an equally sappy smile on her lips?"

Fíli's eyes darken by a fraction as he casts a cautious look around. "Contain your enthusiasm on my behalf, will you. There is absolutely no reason to be shouting it from the rooftops."

Flad chuckles but complies with Fíli's request and lowers his voice. "Now that is an interesting thought, indeed. I wonder how the Bowman would react to that?"

"He'd find a wind lance and shoot you off said rooftop with a black arrow before you even got to finish your sentence," Fíli comments darkly. "And then he would find me and do the same to me, but more slowly and a lot more painfully."

"There are no more black arrows," Thad throws in cheerfully.

"Trust me," Fíli says, shifting in his saddle so that he can look at his friend, "Bard would find one just for this purpose, no matter how impossible the odds of doing so."

Flad laughs. "Alright, then. I suppose it is a good thing that discretion is practically my middle name."

"Sure, and Bombur is secretly an Elf," Fíli snorts.

"What's that talk about my dear brother?" Bofur calls from behind them when Thad and Flad join in with Fíli's laughter.

Fíli turns to look over his shoulder, grinning as he observes the line of Dwarves that has formed behind him. Most of the original company will be joining him on this journey, with three exceptions. As the individual entrusted with the deepest knowledge of the king's affairs (possibly even deeper than Fíli's, if he's honest), Balin is staying behind to govern Erebor together with Dáin. Óin, in his old age, preferred not to make that trip for a second time within a year. And Bombur... well. There was simply no way to persuade him to abandon the kitchens at Erebor and live off stale bread and rabbit stew for months.

So it is with Dwalin, Bofur, Gloin, Ori, Bifur, Nori and Dori at his side that Fíli will be undertaking this journey. And aside from Gloin, who longs to be reunited with his wife and son, Fíli feels confident to say that his fellow Dwarves' motivation for coming along is simply their loyalty to him as their king and their desire to support him in the actions he is taking on all of their behalf. Add to this the always welcome company of Thad and Flad, who would follow him almost anywhere, and the reassuring presence of Glorin and a selection of his most trusted soldiers and Fíli could hardly feel more confident in their chances at completing this journey without it ending in disaster.

In addition, there are fifteen Dwarves traveling with them who will remain at the Blue Mountains for a trial period of one year, bringing up the sum of Fíli's company to thirty-six. And while feeling responsible for so many lives is a bit scary indeed, Fíli cannot help but feel strengthened by the sheer number of followers as he leaves Erebor on this sunny morning in late April.

Yes, it will be a long journey and, in all likelihood, not an easy one – Fíli is not so naïve as to trust that they will not encounter the occasional obstacle on their path. But with the memories of last night still uplifting his spirits, it is hard to fall back into the thought patterns which plagued him during the planning stages of this venture.

"Never mind," he now calls over his shoulder in answer to Bofur's question. "Flad here was just saying that he will find it difficult to keep warm during a long, cold night without Bombur there to snuggle up to."

His brethren's laughter carries him along the leading away from Erebor and past the northern border of Dale, the feeling of being on the road again after spending so many months mostly holed up inside the huge slab of earth and stone which he calls his kingdom quickening both his pulse and his pony's steps. A sense of rightness overrides all other thoughts, all sensations, as if this is precisely what he is meant to be doing.

It is only when they have almost passed Dale already that something prompts Fíli to turn his head and look towards the city once more, ablaze in the morning sun. There, atop the city wall, half concealed by the northwestern watchtower, his eyes discern a figure, the wind tearing at her skirts as she gazes after him and his company. The distance between them is large enough to render her unrecognizable to anyone who has not memorized every small detail about her appearance – from the curl of her hair against the side of her neck, the gentle curve of her waist, to the way in which she carries herself – and so Fíli feels at liberty to stare back at her without fear of giving away a secret he is not prepared to part with just yet.

As he looks on, Sigrid lifts a hand and wraps it around her forearm where Fíli knows the bracelet he has given her to be hidden underneath her clothes. _Always and forever_. He lifts his own hand to his heart, resting it there long enough for her to observe and interpret his gesture. _Until we meet again, my love, _he thinks to himself as he is carried away from Dale and into the turmoil of a new adventure, one that has the potential of turning his life, once again, upside down.


	27. Day 189

**Day 189**

„I've—had—more—than—enough—of—this."

Each of those words of his on the one hundred eighty-ninth day is emphasized by a strike with his blade, hitting goblins left, right, and center. For Mahal's sake – those abominable creatures are a pest that has befallen Fíli and his men far too often in the course of the past few weeks, slowing down their progress enough that Fíli is beginning to fear they will never make it into Eriador, much less to Ered Luin.

With the Elvenking still maintaining a stubborn silence, the original plan was to bypass Mirkwood entirely on their way to the Misty Mountains and travel around its northern border instead. That was where they first ran into trouble – the goblin encampment they quite literally stumbled upon one day was not large enough to pose any serious threat to Fíli and the extremely skilled fighters traveling with him, but after a brief squabble they saw themselves forced to retreat into the forest, not wanting to put themselves at any unnecessary risk so far from home. The goblins' snarled threats about reinforcements being on their way certainly made that decision easier.

Journeying through the forest wasn't quite as horrifying an experience as Fíli had remembered from his first attempt at doing so under Thorin's leadership, but still the detour had lost them several days. There was one particularly unfortunate encounter with a cave-troll that almost cost Fíli his right arm and only very quick thinking on the part of Thad and Flad prevented the worst from happening. Despite losing their way a couple times after that incident, they all made it out of the forest in one piece in the end, and the relief that everyone experienced at seeing the Misty Mountains loom up into the sky before them was palpable.

Sadly, it did not last long – when did it ever? – for today, when they finally reached the entrance to the High Pass at the crack of dawn, they found it blocked by huge slabs of stone that even the strongest among them could not move. It smelled of a trap, but what were they to do? They needed to cross those mountains, one way or the other. Trying for the lower pass instead, they were not altogether surprised when they were greeted by yet another band of goblins.

The creatures had evidently been lying in wait for any travelers trying to traverse the mountain range and were already half-mad with anticipation and bloodlust. That their victims were more than able to defend themselves seemed to come as a bit of a surprise to the goblins, and for a time it looked as if the Dwarves would succeed at beating them back, but then a new wave of foes came spilling down the mountainside and Fíli saw himself forced to order his men to retreat.

A few dozen goblins chased them down to the foot of the mountains, where a messy fight erupted between them and the thirty-six Dwarves in Fíli's company. The Dwarves quickly gained the upper hand, but still it took them an annoyingly long time to come anywhere close to finally beating them.

Now, with the glare of the morning sun nearly blinding him and causing rivulets of sweat to run down between his shoulder blades, Fíli turns once around his own axis, surveying the scene.

"It's done," Dwalin announces as he unceremoniously steps over several goblin carcasses. "Those that still live have run for the hills."

"Thank Mahal." Fíli takes a moment where he rests his hands on his knees, taking a few deep breaths. They barely rested the night before, rising hours before dawn to avoid climbing the mountain side in the scorching heat of the midday sun. "I thought it was never going to end," he now says, running a weary hand across his damp forehead.

Dwalin takes a grim look around, absently wiping the blade of his axe on an old rag. "I fear it might not be the end, yet. Not if we linger for much longer."

Fíli nods, following Dwalin's gaze to the mountain range. Who knows how many of their enemies lie in wait in the depths of those mountains, waiting to strike. "What do you propose?" he asks his friend and trusted advisor. Dwalin's knowledge of the area is far superior to his; if anyone can get them across those blasted mountains its him – and they will need to get across them, at some point.

A few moments pass where the older Dwarf appears to be taking stock of their options, his gaze first traveling along the mountain range to the North, then to the South. "We cannot hope to cross over here," he finally says. "There is another pass, less well-known, near the source of the River Gladden. I say we make for that one."

"How long will it take us to get there?"

"Three days, I believe." When Fíli's lips twist in dismay at the prospect of yet another delay, Dwalin adds, "This will have the advantage, at least, of us not having to go anywhere near Rivendell and that blasted Elrond."

Fíli smiles at that, even though privately he cannot help but think that a little break from being on the road might do them all a world of good. They're all weary, filthy, and weather-beaten, and while their journey through Eriador ought to be much easier than what they have had to face so far, they could all have profited from a chance to gather their strength and calm their spirits, even if that would have meant relying on Elrond's hesitant hospitality and the Elves' rather questionable food preferences. But, alas, it shall not come to that, it seems.

"Get everyone together," Fíli thus says grimly, hating that he cannot allow his men to rest. "Those who have been injured or are too fatigued can take the ponies. The rest of us walk. The sooner we get to that pass, the better."

Dwalin nods sharply and sets about fulfilling his task. Fíli, too, turns his attention to the members of his company, making sure that those who have been hurt in their confrontation with the goblins are not in too much discomfort to continue their journey. Thankfully, the injuries sustained are relatively minor ones and nothing that ought to keep a Dwarf off his feet for very long. But still... Fíli cannot ignore the tight knot of uneasiness that has formed in his chest. It is almost as if fate does not wish for them to conduct their journey as planned, as if impediments are being thrown in their path to keep them on this side of the mountains.

Why that might be, he cannot fathom. With his luck, though, whatever it is that fate has planned for them, will be a very foul thing indeed.

_It's been over a month already_, he writes later that day when they have finally made camp. He's not sure whether he will ever show Sigrid the things he has written in the little leather-bound notebook he has been carrying with him ever since their departure from Erebor, but even if he doesn't, it still feels good to at least imagine talking to her.

_At first it was comforting to see the Lonely Mountain in the distance whenever I turned around, _he confesses to the little square of parchment,_ but now I find myself impatient to leave that view behind. The sooner we make it into Eriador, the sooner I will be back at your side, my love._ _The sooner I can begin to construct a life – _our_ life – out of the_ _rubble I left behind._

He chews on the tip of his pen, lifting a thoughtful gaze to the horizon. Erebor lies bathed in the light of the setting sun, towering majestically over the lands surrounding it. He wonders what Sigrid is doing right now and whether she misses him.

She likely does, he reasons, at least if she finds time to do so. With Óin having stayed behind to continue teaching her, her days ought to be rather busy indeed. But that's a good thing, he thinks, as he closes his notebook and stows it away in his coat, in a hidden pocket close to his heart. She has reminded him more than once that she is not an exotic bird to be kept in a golden cage and he knows that she would never be happy unless she is allowed to engage with both her hands and her mind in the toils of everyday life.

After his return, if things go as he hopes they will, he will have to find a way to have her formally recognized as a healer among his own people, too. The fact that she has studied under Óin's tutelage for quite some time now should make that much easier than it might have been otherwise.

Spinning those thoughts a little further in his head while warmth creeps into his chilled bones at the thought of an actual future with Sigrid at his side, Fíli settles down to get some rest. After the day they have all had, he is confident that sleep will come easily tonight. That turns out to be the case indeed, however his rest is not nearly as undisturbed as he hoped it would be.

His dreams that night are not, as they have been so often of late, of Sigrid, but of his brother. Seemingly disconnected images of Kíli flash through his mind, and whenever Fíli wakes up during the night, he has a hard time distinguishing dream from reality, memory from figment of his imagination. They add to his general sense of unease, those dreams, but then again, he surmises that he ought not be surprised that they have caught up with him after all.

Mirkwood, Beorn's house, Goblin Town, the Misty Mountains... The area they have traveled through those past days is brimming with recollections of his brother and their shared adventures. Yes, his current company consists of the most excellent Dwarves anyone could wish for, but it's not the same as having Kíli at his side. It never will be.

And yet, it will have to be enough, he tells himself as he rolls onto his other side once again, seeking to get comfortable. Dawn is just a few hours away and when it arrives, they will continue their journey to the pass Dwalin is leading them to. Perhaps some of his demons will at least do him the favor of remaining on this side of the mountains once he crosses them. Mahal knows that there are enough ghosts, enough memories waiting for him in Eriador – if he should ever reach it, that is.

_...to be continued..._

_A/N: Yeah, yeah, I know, a bit of a transitional chapter. No one ever really loves those. But now we're all set up for Day 192, which is (surprise, surprise) quite possibly the most important chapter in this story.  
_


	28. Day 192

_A/N: It took me a lot longer to reach this point than I had originally planned, but here we are. If you've read The Gift you know what's coming and may recognize some of the dialogue in this chapter. Still, I hope you enjoy reading it all from Fíli's POV. Also, this is not the end of this story – a few chapters to go, still._

**Day 192**

The one hundred ninety-second day without his brother begins as all others have since Fíli and his company of Dwarves left Erebor to travel back to the Blue Mountains. A modest breakfast around the campfire, packing up their belongings, making sure that they did not leave any traces that would make it easy to follow them. And then they're on the move again.

Summer has finally arrived and appears to have made up its mind to stay, the days growing progressively warmer as they approached the mountain range. Today, the air is humid and the absence of even the smallest of breezes is turning everyone into a red-faced, sweaty mess which is not conducive to anybody's mood. When they finally reach the northernmost of the two unnamed rivers coming together as the Gladden a few miles to the east, a collective sigh of relief is breathed by the company under Fíli's command.

While most of his companions climb down the riverbank to seek some refreshment from the gurgling waters, Fíli comes to stand next to Dwalin, who is glaring at the mountains. With Dwalin, that does not necessarily have to mean anything, but still Fíli experiences quite a bit of apprehension when he asks, "How much further?"

"Not much," Dwalin grunts, to Fíli's immense relief. "If we wanted to, then I believe we could be on the pass in two hours' time."

"So... that is not what we want then, I presume?"

Dwalin gives a small shake of his head. "I would advise against it. Everyone's worn out and bound to make mistakes on the steep and narrow paths. It might be better if we made camp and got some rest – all of us, including you."

The last part is said with a knowing scowl in Fíli's direction. He has gotten even less repose than the others these past few nights, his incessant dreams making prolonged periods of sleep all but impossible. Fíli gives an absent nod. He doubts that he will be able to rest properly until they have finally made it into Eriador, but still he cannot argue with Dwalin's logic.

"Alright, then. This will also give us some time to scout the area and make sure that we are not running headlong into another ambush."

"Precisely," Dwalin returns, his lips twisted in distaste at the memories of the misfortunes that have befallen them in the past few weeks. The seasoned warrior has a tendency to regard every goblin assault as a personal affront, particularly if their circumstances force their company to retreat rather than see a confrontation through to the end.

A rustling in the undergrowth alerts Fíli and Dwalin to another presence, and they turn around to come face to face with a panting Glorin, his red mane plastered to his forehead with sweat. A rare grin lights up the usually so sullen soldier's face.

"You ought to come see this, Your Majesty."

Fíli and Dwalin exchange a look, but then Fíli shrugs and nods to Glorin to lead the way. The stout Dwarf does not usually approach Fíli directly unless the matter is very pressing indeed and so Fíli suspects that whatever Glorin is going to show him will be worth his time.

He's not wrong.

A slow smile spreads across his lips as he takes in the scene that presents itself to them after a short hike upstream. The source of the river, as it turns out, is a waterfall that descends from the mountain range looming above them, the water forming a shallow but wide pool before the current carries it away towards the Gladden. Some of Glorin's men have already stripped down and are wading into the water, laughing and joking as they do so. The area is densely populated with trees, the air in the shade provided by them pleasantly fresh. After days of traveling over what has been mostly rocky terrain, Fíli's senses rejoice over this most welcome change and he breathes deeply, inhaling the fragrant air. Maybe he will manage to find some rest tonight after all.

He tears his gaze away from the spectacle nature has put on display before him to find Glorin looking at him expectantly.

"It's magnificent," he says with a grin.

"Wait until I show you the best part," Glorin retorts and turns away from the water's edge, leading Dwalin and Fíli around it and towards the waterfall. The roar of the water is near deafening up close and Fíli's small sound of protest as Glorin proceeds to head directly _into_ the waterfall is drowned out by the general amount of noise.

It is only when Glorin pokes his head back out to look at them expectantly that Fíli realizes that the head of his guard has not in fact walked into the water but has gone around it. He raises a quizzical eyebrow at Dwalin and, finding his friend none the wiser, shrugs before following Glorin.

Once his eyes have gotten used to the dim light, Fíli realizes that he is standing at the mouth of a large cavern concealed behind the waterfall. Advancing a few steps, the noise of the waterfall fades and Fíli is surprised how tranquil the large space appears. Glorin his standing in the middle of the cavern, a satisfied smile plastered across his wide face.

"What do you say, Your Majesty? There are more caves such as this one if you climb uphill for a bit. I've sent my most reliable scouts to investigate, but so far everything appears to be secure."

Fíli takes another look around. The air is fresh and the ground surprisingly dry. He nods. "We will make camp here tonight. Dori is convinced that there will be a storm later and if he's right, then we shall all do well to be sheltered in here. Go and get the others and bring them here, please. Then we can finally get some well-deserved rest. Ah, and Glorin—" his voice halts the stout Dwarf already halfway out of the cave, eager to comply with his king's request, "—well done. Your instinct and keen eyesight may well grant us all a good chance at a truly peaceful night."

Glorin inclines his head to hide what Fíli thinks must be a blush. "At your service, Your Majesty," he mumbles and hurries out of the cave.

Once he's gone, Fíli turns around to find Dwalin watching him, one corner of his mouth upturned.

"What?" Fíli asks.

"Nothing." Dwalin tries to put on an innocent face and, as might be expected, fails miserably. "It's just that if you keep going at this rate, our people at Ered Luin will follow you back to Erebor without even a moment's hesitation."

Fíli raises his eyebrows. "And why would that be?"

"Because you are a good king, of course."

As always when complimented on his ability to lead, Fíli has the impulse to object and barely manages to keep his mouth shut, hanging his head instead. His struggle must have shown on his face, for Dwalin adds with a laugh, "Someday you'll see it, too. What we all see when we look at you."

And with that he leaves Fíli alone to stare about himself in the large cavern, thinking that Dwarves are a decidedly sentimental bunch after all.

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

It takes them a few hours to get everything set up at the caverns, but by the time when afternoon slowly blends into evening, everyone has found their place and a sense of peace and almost festive joy permeates their camp.

Fíli settles back against his bedroll, his legs propped up in front of him while he writes into his journal. Voices drift up to him from the lower caverns and he smiles to himself when he recognizes Bofur's singing amongst them. Once darkness has fallen properly, they will need to exercise more caution, but for the time being, let them have their fun. It's been a long couple of days, and they all deserve some respite. He might even join them later, have a drink, sing a couple of songs to take his mind off the worries that continue nagging him despite today's fortunate turn of events. For now, though, he intends to stay up here in one of the caves far from the ground and enjoy a rare moment of privacy.

Currently, the only other two occupants of the smaller cavern are Dwalin and Ori, the former of which is focused on cleaning his weapons while the latter is leaning over his own journal, no doubt chronicling their progress. Aside from the distant voices and the rushing of the waterfall in the background, it is quiet in the cave, and Fíli relishes this chance to untangle his thoughts and focus on the things he wants Sigrid to learn about his journey when, one day, she gets to read his notes. How he sometimes wakes from his dreams with the memory of her touch, her scent, her voice sending his heart racing, how every beautiful view he encounters on his travels makes him wish that he might be able to show it to her some day. How her unwavering belief in him makes it so much easier to bear the weight of the responsibility for those traveling with him.

He writes a few lines, feeling the tension in his shoulders and neck ease as he pours his feelings unto the page, his more sinister thoughts drifting into the background for now. But, alas, it is not meant to last.

A roll of thunder in the distance coincides with Glorin entering the cavern, his mouth forming a hard line beneath his bushy, red beard. Fíli closes his journal warily, shoving it underneath his bed roll as he makes to rise.

"What's the matter?"

Glorin gives a sharp bow before launching into his report. "My sentinels report suspicious activity further down the river. It is not enough to start worrying just yet, but I would like to request your permission to take my men to further investigate this."

Fíli nods. "Whatever you deem necessary." At that moment, a loud howl rips through the silence of the night, causing the hairs at the back of Fíli's neck to rise. What new atrocity was this, now? He turns to Glorin once more. "Instruct the others to remain inside the caves for now and to stay vigilant until we have heard back from you."

"Yes, Your Majesty. We will return as swiftly as possible."

Another bow and then Glorin has disappeared again, the force of his steps indicating his dissatisfaction with the situation. Fíli can sympathize – he, too, had hoped that they would be spared trouble for once. He turns to Dwalin, who has also risen, looking, as always, ready to throw himself into combat at a moment's notice.

"Get the others up here, please," Fíli says. "If we are not allowed to get some rest we might as well talk strategy."

Dwalin grunts in agreement and follows Glorin without further ado to fetch the remainder of the Dwarves from Thorin's original company. Glorin and his men are equipped with excellent skill with regard to scouting for locations where they can make camp, securing the perimeter and defending them against any threats that might lurk in the darkness. But when it comes to planning the steps of their journey and weighing their various options against one another, it is those whom Fíli has known the longest that he trusts the most, their shared history engendering a mutual understanding which he cannot hope to find with anyone else. Aside from Thad and Flad, possibly, but he knows better than to drag them away from their campfire and their bottle of mead – they'll come when he needs them. Right now, though, it is the counsel of the more experienced among his friends which he seeks to obtain.

While he and Ori wait for Dwalin to return with Bifur, Dori, Gloin, Nori, and Bofur, Fíli steps out from behind the waterfall to gaze at the lands below, now shrouded in darkness. The wind has picked up in force and the sky is hung with dark clouds. As he stares into the blackness below, Fíli experiences a sharp pricking at the back of his neck, his whole body thrumming in anticipation of some unnamed, future event. It's just the approaching storm, he reasons with himself, the air around him crackling with tension. And yet he cannot shake the feeling that something big is about to happen, something that will change things on a fundamental level.

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

The worst of the storm appears to have passed already when Fíli's meeting with his brethren is finally interrupted by one of Glorin's men, informing them that they have apprehended two individuals that were allegedly seeking to invade their camp. One of them, curiously enough, is reported to be a Dwarf of unknown allegiance.

"What would one of our own kind be lurkin' about in the woods for?" Bofur asks when the messenger has left again after informing them that Glorin will bring the prisoners to them within the hour.

"Plotting an assassination, possibly?" Gloin suggests with an eyebrow raised in Fíli's direction.

"Ah, come on, we may not be a race known for their genteel manners, but surely that would be a bit extreme," Bofur argues.

"I can think of a few clans that might hold a grudge," Dwalin grumbles. "You, Bofur, should know better than most of us what they are capable of."

Fíli feels several pairs of eyes rest on him as he frowns, his eyes fixed on the fire they have kept burning during their council meeting. Could this be the retribution by the Blacklocks Balin has been worried about for months? It's not altogether impossible, but still improbable at best.

"How would they even know where we are? We've strayed from our original path more than once," he reminds his brethren.

"Yes, and who is that other prisoner if it's not a Dwarf? Who would one of our own be travelling with through these lands?"

That question raised by Nori sends the others into a series of wild speculations as to the identity of Glorin's prisoner to which Fíli listens only halfheartedly. So far, the reports do not indicate immediate danger to him or his people. Still, that ominous sense of foreboding has him firmly in its grasp and he cannot shake the feeling that those prisoners are key to whatever is going to happen tonight. Which leaves the question how the presence of just two people could possibly affect the course of fate in a manner as meaningful as the tight sensation in his chest seems to suggest.

His musings are put to an end when the sound of several sets of steps echoes through the cavern. Fíli rises from his seat by the campfire to watch Glorin enter, followed by two Dwarves that are each holding onto one arm of the prisoner whom they escort into the cave.

He's wearing a cloak of some dark, rather flimsy-looking fabric, the large hood pulled far enough into his face to conceal it entirely. Other than his height – taller than Glorin's men, but not tall enough to be either man or Elf – nothing about him looks particularly Dwarven.

All of his attention focused on the newcomers, Fíli is dimly aware of the others forming a loose half circle around him and he takes a step forward to meet Glorin at the center of the cavern. At a gesture from the redhead, the two soldiers bring the prisoner forward, forcing him onto his knees with rather more force than Fíli would have deemed necessary, given the fact that so far he has not appeared to put up any sort of resistance. The prisoner remains slumped forward on the ground as Glorin's men step back and Fíli wonders if he's hurt. Glorin and his men tend to be a little too eager to carry out what they believe to be their king's wishes and Fíli resolves to have a word with his head guard about unnecessary displays of violence at the next opportunity.

Meanwhile, Glorin has taken up his stance in front of the prisoner and addresses Fíli in his most official tone. "My King, my men and I have apprehended this one not far from here, plotting how to invade our camp together with an elf-woman. Says he's a blacksmith from Bree, but if you ask me, I wouldn't believe anything that comes out of the mouth of a Dwarf in league with an Elf."

An Elf? That is a piece of news Fíli was not prepared for. It answers his unspoken question, though, why he is presented with only one prisoner when there are said to be two. Glorin's general distrust of their race would induce him to put any Elf found sneaking about in the dark into custody directly and not bring them before his king first. Also, this new development ought to dispel his brethren's concern about a Blacklock attack. Ásta's family would never consort with Elves, no matter how grievous Fíli's insult to her.

Intrigued and more than a little confused, Fíli steps closer to stand directly before the prisoner, Glorin moving out of his way with a little bow. "That may be so," he says to Glorin, "but he is a Dwarf nevertheless and as such deserves to be treated with a certain measure of respect." He looks down at the huddled form. "Rise. No harm shall come to you until your guilt is proven."

The figure in front of him does not react. In fact, the stranger appears to have frozen entirely once Fíli addressed him, his cloaked form as still and rigid as a statue.

"Oi!" Glorin kneels down next to his prisoner, grabbing him roughly by the neck to drag him up. "The King just gave you an order. Show some respect!"

"Leave him be!"

Fíli speaks without a second thought, an unexpected surge of protectiveness for this unfamiliar Dwarf coursing through him. He's never entirely agreed with some of the methods Glorin and his men like to employ, but since they usually get the job done rather efficiently, he has refrained from interfering. Now, though, the force of his indignation on behalf of the prisoner takes him by surprise – Glorin as well, it appears, for he promptly releases his hold onto the prisoner's neck and steps back.

Fíli steps a little closer still to the stranger who now barely appears to be able to hold himself upright.

"What is your name?"

Again, his question is met with silence, the only sign that it has been heard a visible tremor that runs through the prisoner's body.

Glorin, eager to make up for his little slip from a few moments ago, answers on behalf of the silent stranger.

"Says his name is Torlig, son of Thog. I've never heard of either, so unless he's—"

"It is not."

The voice which interrupts Glorin is so low, choked almost, that Fíli struggles to make out the words. The whispers of his brethren cease abruptly and in the silence which falls over the cavern, Fíli can hear the inexplicably fast beating of his heart in his own ears.

"What was that?" Surprise has robbed Glorin's voice of its previous harshness and he sounds genuinely confused.

"I said," the figure cowering on the ground speaks up again, more clearly this time, "it's not. My name. It isn't Torlig."

Upon hearing the prisoner's voice echo through the cavern, Fíli has stopped breathing. Now, the air rushes back into his lungs with almost painful force and he takes another half step forward, his knees threatening to give away.

"Show yourself," he hears himself say, even though he already knows what it is he will see when the prisoner reveals his face. Which does not make it any less impossible.

With excruciating slowness, the figure on the ground begins to lift his head, the flames from the torches and fires burning in the cavern gradually illuminating his features. Fíli's world grinds to an abrupt halt. It cannot be. It cannot – and yet it is his brother's face that he finds himself staring into.

The noise of the waterfall suddenly seems very loud indeed, or maybe it is just the sound of his own blood rushing through his body which Fíli is hearing. He can't speak, can't move, can only roam Kíli's familiar features with his eyes as the seconds tick by.

Tears are glistening on Kíli's cheeks, bronzed and a little weather-beaten like he, too, has been on the road for some time. His cheeks seem a little thinner, the shadow of his beard a little darker than when Fíli last saw him, but it is most assuredly him. Which does not make any sense at all.

Their eyes lock and Fíli remains transfixed under his brother's stare, incapable of any sort of reaction. Truth be told, he is waiting for the image before him to simply fade away into nothingness. Too often during those long months since the battle has his mind tormented him with visions of Kíli for him to trust that this is not another of those instances.

As he looks on, though, Kíli lifts trembling hands to pull back his hood, revealing his dark hair, longer than Fíli remembers and tied together at the back of his neck. A collective gasp echoes through the cavern and before Fíli has time to process the fact that either everyone else is having the same hallucination as him or it really is Kíli kneeling before him, Bofur is rushing forward to embrace the long-lost member of their company.

"Kíli!"

Still, Fíli is unable to move, the words exchanged between Kíli and Bofur barely registering with him through the haze which clouds both his mind and his senses. For weeks he has insisted that Kíli is still alive, somewhere, and even in the months after he accepted that they would not find him, he has been unable to shake the feeling that his and Kíli's story is not quite over yet. Now, though, that his intuition is proven accurate, he cannot believe what is before his very eyes. Many times he has imagined what it would be like to find Kíli again, to have him returned to his side. Now, though, he feels numb, paralyzed even, and entirely unable to comprehend what is happening.

Finally, Bofur asks the question that is most pressing at the moment – where has Kíli been, all this time? And how come he is here, now?

Instead of answering, Kíli raises his eyes to Fíli once more and in their depths, Fíli sees some of the helpless bewilderment he, too, is experiencing. There's also a fair bit of hesitation to be found in Kíli's gaze and something else, something darker. Guilt, perhaps?

"I—I don't understand," Kíli says. "I watched you fall. You died."

_So did you_, Fíli wants to say, but still the words won't come, the weight on his chest making speech impossible. All his grief, his tears, his nightmares – has it really been for nothing?

"Only he didn't," Bofur replies when Fíli does not answer. "Or at least he did not stay dead for very long – depending on how you look at it. Either way, it was a proper miracle. Earned himself a new nickname, your brother. Fíli the Deathless. Fantastic name for a king if you ask me."

Today, Bofur's mention of his invented nickname fails to provoke the usual eye roll on Fíli's part. What is being said does not really register with him, for it does not make much of a difference. He's alive still, and so is Kíli, when either of them thought that the opposite was the case. How such a thing, such a cruel misunderstanding, is possible, eludes Fíli as he continues to stare at his brother, who is now gazing at him with equal shares of awe and confusion.

Appearing to come to some sort of conclusion, Kíli finally takes Bofur's proffered arm and hauls himself to his feet, coming to stand in front Fíli. The rest of the cavern fades away as the brothers study one another. Fíli's eyes travel over Kíli's features, taking it all in with this curious sense of detachment that has dulled his perception ever since he laid eyes on his brother. Even as he watches tears well up in Kíli's eyes, his own eyes remain dry. Only when Kíli lifts his hand to place his palm over Fíli's heart, does he feel something inside him start to crack at last, his brother's touch thawing at the rigidness that has taken possession of him.

"It really is you."

Kili's words, whispered with heartbreaking tenderness, are what give Fíli the final push and then he's moving, grabbing at fistfuls of Kíli's cloak to pull him against himself, holding on so tightly that neither of them can breathe properly. He's not sure whether the sobs that send tremors through his body are his own or Kíli's, but it does not matter. Now, here, they are joined as one when he had already thought them separated forever.

Over Kíli's shoulder he sees Dwalin usher the other Dwarves out of the cavern but pays no heed to the curious and concerned glances they throw in his and Kíli's direction. This moment belongs to him and his brother only; there will be time to speak with the others later. Before he, too, leaves, Dwalin exchanges a last look with Fíli and it can only be accredited to the fact that in the last months he has spent more time than ever before with the older Dwarf that the slight glint in Dwalin's eye does not escape his notice. Having Kíli back – it changes everything, for all of them.

Alone at last, Fíli does not let go of his brother for a long time, and when he does, it is only to cradle Kíli's face in his palms so that he may look at him once more, a small part of him still not entirely convinced that this is not the most wonderful dream of all times. And yet Kíli's skin is warm against his fingers, the feeling of the stubble of his beard scratching against his skin too real to be a dream.

"I knew it," Fíli says, unashamed of the fact that his voice is breaking. "I just knew that you were too stubborn to die."

"I suppose I am." Kíli's laugh is exactly as he remembers it, and Fíli moves his thumb across his brother's cheek to catch a tear as it spills from his smiling eyes. A part of him wants to stay like this indefinitely, to bask in the joy that having Kíli with him brings. However, his mind refuses to make things quite so easy for him and after another few moments he finds himself growing restless with all the unanswered questions that Kíli's return raises.

"What happened to you?" he asks as he lays his hand on Kíli's shoulder, unwilling to let him out of his grasp just yet. "I was convinced that you had been taken by goblins and expected a demand for ransom any day. But nothing ever came. If it wasn't goblins, then who took you?"

Kíli shakes his head and Fíli is taken aback by the flicker of hesitation he watches dance across his brother's features. "No one took me."

"Then what happened? Where have you been?"

He prepares to listen to some wild tale explaining his brother's disappearance, but as he watches Kíli press his lips together and avert his eyes, it dawns on him that there is no such tale forthcoming. Kíli has never been very good at hiding his emotions, particularly not from him, and so it does not take Fíli very long to discern the guilty look on Kíli's face. Only why Kíli would feel guilty is beyond him – they both thought each other dead and while that has been a terrible misunderstanding, it is nothing that either of them could have helped, is it? Unless... unless, of course, it was not entirely an accident on Kíli's part that the world thought him dead for months now.

Frowning, Fíli lets his eyes drift from Kíli's face, properly taking in the rest of his brother's appearance for the first time. He already noticed the rather odd cloak when Kíli was first brought before him; now he sees that under this cloak Kíli is dressed in an outlandish assortment of clothes, consisting mostly of fine, dark fabrics that fit close to his skin and make him look taller and leaner than Fíli ever remembers seeing him. This outfit of his brother is completed by a pair of boots that do not look very substantial, soft leather and thin soles that would have made Fíli snort in derision under different circumstances. Now, though, he narrows his eyes as he tries to determine where he has seen this kind of clothing before and why on earth his brother would feel compelled to dress in it.

"What are you—"he begins and that is when things fall into place. He closes his eyes – this cannot be true. And yet it is the only explanation that makes even the least bit of sense. "Glorin said they found you together with an Elf... It's _her_, isn't it? You weren't taken. You left. You left to be with her."

He would have thought that he has gained a rather intimate understanding of what it means to be in pain after Kíli's disappearance. For a while, it was all that he ever seemed to feel – every single moment, every emotion, used to be laced with the pain of his loss, his grief, his guilt. But this – _this_ is a new sort of pain altogether and the blow as which he experiences Kíli's betrayal nearly brings him to his knees.

"It wasn't like that."

When Fíli musters the strength to look at his brother once more he finds Kíli's eyes widened with both fear and sorrow, pleading with Fíli to believe him. He cannot.

"Was it not?" Fíli now relinquished his hold onto his brother and takes a step back. "Are you telling me you did not abandon your own people in the full knowledge that they would think you dead – that they would mourn you – to run after an elf-woman you conceived an ill-advised infatuation with?"

The venom in his voice clearly catches Kíli off guard and he stammers his response.

"No, I—well, yes, if you put it like that, but—" Fíli watches Kíli fumble for words even though he already knows that there is not much Kíli could possibly say to make this right. He's gone too far this time in his impulsiveness. "Listen, it is not that simple," Kíli tries again after a pause. "I thought you were dead – no, not just that, I _watched_ you die. I was half-mad with grief and when I learned that Thorin had fallen as well, I... I just could not stay. I couldn't."

For a moment, the sudden mention of Thorin has Fíli's mind reeling. Why would his uncle's death drive Kíli away from Erebor, away from everyone and everything they have fought for? His mind flashes back to the days after the battle, to how he felt after waking up not only without his beloved brother by his side but also without his uncle there to guide him and he understands what it was that influenced Kíli's choice. Which does not mean that he can forgive him for it.

"You thought you would be made King and ran away from the responsibility."

"I am not cut out to be a king." Kíli's tone is desperate, pleading. "You of all people should know that. I thought that by removing myself I was doing what is best for our people."

"Don't you mean what is best for yourself? How awfully convenient that your decisions led you straight into the arms of that Elf you are so obsessed with." The words are out before Fíli has time to check himself, but then again, he does not really want to contain his anger. Kíli may think that he does not understand what his little brother has gone through after the battle, but he does. He's gone through it himself, after all, and unlike his brother he had nowhere to hide from the horror of it.

"That is not why I did what I did," Kíli insists, but Fíli is not even listening to him. Now that he has begun to allow some of his anger to rise to the surface, it refuses to be contained any longer.

"Do you think I felt ready to be King?" He thinks he's shouting now, but it's difficult to tell with the loud ringing in his ears. "Mahal, how many times did I wish I could simply escape from it all. But it is not that easy, not for me at least. I don't get to run off and fall into bed with the next best wench."

Fíli is not sure what happens next, the haze of anger clouding his senses making it a little difficult to keep track of things, but suddenly he finds himself being nearly choked by Kíli, his face twisted into a threatening snarl.

"Now be very careful what you say. That is my wife you are talking about."

Wait, what?

"Your wife."

Surprise has struck Fíli like a blow to his face and his anger has dissipated in its wake, leaving him to gape at his brother with what must be an excellent imitation of a fish.

"That's right," Kíli says, a little calmer but no less threatening. "Now you can call me all the things you like – and I probably deserve most of them – but I will not allow you to speak of her with disrespect."

"You are married to an Elf?"

"To Tauriel," Kíli confirms unnecessarily and Fíli bites back a sarcastic comment about how he would have bet his gold on Legolas, if anyone. Instead he allows Kíli to continue, listening more calmly than before. "But that didn't happen until very recently," Kíli now explains. "I did not leave to be with her – I left because I could not stay, not without you by my side. Fíli, I was so sure that you were dead. If there had been even the slightest of doubts in my heart about that I would not have—"

Kíli breaks off here and Fíli watches as his brother becomes lost in his thoughts for a few moments before giving himself a small shake, pushing away whatever memories have derailed his train of thought. "Well, we certainly wouldn't be standing here right now," Kíli says, lifting his eyes back to meet Fíli's stare.

Kíli may be many things, but he's not a liar. There must be a lot of things still that he has not told Fíli about his disappearance, but those that he has revealed are truthful, Fíli has no doubt about that. If only that would make it easier to accept them.

Overcome by sudden weariness, Fíli sighs deeply and frowns at the ground, unable to confront the raw guilt in his brother's eyes any longer.

"For all I know I was supposed to be dead," he admits. "For a moment, at least, everyone thought I was. But then... You heard them. They think it was a miracle. To be honest, though, I have no idea what happened."

"I do."

Surprise prompts Fíli to lift his head once more and he finds Kiki gazing at him with an expression of calm certainty.

"You do?"

Kíli nods, once, and takes a deep breath. Then he proceeds, with perfect sincerity, to tell Fíli one of the most fantastic tales he has ever heard, beginning with the Elvenking himself stepping in to save Kíli's life after he was mortally wounded atop Ravenhill, followed by Kíli's return to Mirkwood to live in the Elven version of a cabin in the forest, and culminating in some sort of soul-seeking journey to Lothlórien, of all places.

"For the longest of times after Thranduil brought me back I thought that something was... _wrong_ with me, that perhaps I had been gone too far already and would never truly find my place in this world again," Kíli says after he has sketched those first months he spent in the forest of the Elves, living together with Tauriel. Fíli senses that there is something Kíli is not telling him, but he does not call him out on it. Instead, he finds himself sympathizing with his brother. Clearly running away from Erebor has not helped Kíli to escape those feelings that have plagued him, too, after battle. Those doubts about the validity of his claim to life, about his reason for still being here.

"But you overcame those feelings, eventually?"

Kíli nods. "I did. Galadriel – she possesses powers unlike anything I have ever seen, and she showed me things, things that had happened to me but that I had forgotten."

"What things?"

"I saw where I had gone after Bolg stabbed me. It was... it was a terrible place, desolate, barren, and full of despair. There was this—this wind that that made it hard to see anything, to hear anything, and I was just so afraid."

Fíli swallows, trying to hide his shock at his brother's words. He, too, has seen a place like this, in a dream, not so very long ago. Could it be that...?

"I soon realized, though, that I wasn't alone," Kíli continues. "There were others there with me that were trying to help me, to show me my way back because that was where I was apparently meant to be going. And—" he pauses to smile at Fíli a bit hesitantly, "—and you were there as well. I tried to bring you with me, tried with everything I had. But... but you were hurt and I... I lost you."

Fíli stares at his brother who is now gazing onto the flames of the fire close by, the faint pain of remembrance flickering across his features. "I was there, too?" Fíli asks. "In that— in that strange place?"

"You were," Kíli says. "When you just disappeared into thin air, I thought that I had failed in taking you back with me, but now I believe that I did succeed after all." His expression turns tender and Fíli feels a similar feeling stir in his hardened heart. "I got you out. I have no idea how such a thing is possible, but here we are, you and me, alive when we should actually be entombed somewhere far below that mountain."

"Sometimes I feel as if I am." Fíli cannot help it. Yes, he has been much better lately, having grown more comfortable in his role as king and looking towards the future with a spark of hope in his heart now that he knows Sigrid will be a part of it, somehow. Those memories of the days following the battle, though, they have torn open old wounds and left him feeling raw and open, darkness laying its claim on him once more.

He can feel himself drifting, threatening to slip back into old patterns of self-hatred and despair. He is anchored to the present, then, by a pair of strong arms being wrapped around him and finds himself leaning into his brother's embrace, the familiar comfort of Kíli's warmth too tempting to resist.

"I am sorry I wasn't there," Kíli says, the brush of his breath warm against the side of Fíli's neck. "I cannot imagine what it was like for you, taking Thorin's place. Can you ever forgive me?"

That is what it comes down to, isn't it? The question whether Fíli can find it in his heart to forgive his brother for his betrayal. For even after Kíli has explained the circumstances that have led to his decision and the consequences that he has had to live with, what he has done remains a betrayal, if not of Fíli directly then of everything they were raised to believe in. If it were anyone else, Fíli is not sure that he could ever hope to aspire to something even remotely close to forgiveness. But... this is Kíli. His brother – his reckless, impulsive, accident-prone baby brother, who loves him so much that he could not bear the thought of having to go on without him and turned his back on everything and everyone they knew instead.

He pulls back to look at Kíli and finds his brother's face wet with tears. This time, his own eyes mist over as well, and he makes to speak, the words that Kíli so clearly longs to hear sitting at the tip of tongue already. Before he manages to utter a single sound, though, a loud crash echoes through the silence of the night, and Fíli hears the all too familiar sounds of fighting.

Kíli is right behind him as he rushes to the entrance of the cave where they almost smack into Dwalin. He must have been standing guard outside or he would not have been able to get up here so quickly.

"A goblin attack," Dwalin reports. "They came out of nowhere. Apparently, these caverns aren't the only ones in the area."

Not this again. How much bad luck could one party of travelers have? "Tell me what is happening," Fíli demands of Dwalin.

"They are swarming the lower levels. Those of our men who could, have already relocated to the higher caverns. It would be best if you stayed up here for the time being until we have gained control over the situation."

Normally, Fíli would not take well to being asked to stay behind while his men are fighting for their lives, and Dwalin knows this quite well. The fact that he is suggesting it nevertheless, tells Fíli that the situation down below must be far from ideal indeed. This, paired with the fact that the emotional upheaval of the last hours has put him in a state where he is more likely to make mistakes than normally, make him somewhat inclined to comply with Dwalin's request.

He turns to look at Kíli and finds his brother's eyes widened with shock, all blood drained from his face.

"Tauriel," Kíli chokes out. "They put her in a cave down there and tied her up. She—she won't even be able to defend herself."

Fíli has seen his brother scared before, but never like this, not like his whole world is about to be ripped from him. And while his own feelings towards the red-haired Wood-Elf are more ambiguous than ever after the things he has learned today, there is barely any hesitation on his part before he nods grimly. "Then we will have to go and get her," he says, watching as relief washes over Kíli's face. "Come on."

As they brush past Dwalin, the older Dwarf reaches out his hand in a half-hearted attempt to hold Fíli back, but one look from his young king suffices to make him pull back. Fíli has just gotten his brother back and there is no way that he is going to let Kíli throw himself into a fight by himself. No – they're going to see this through together, and they're going to win, and then he's going to sit Kíli down and tell him that he's the biggest idiot in the entire world, but that, yes, he will forgive him, eventually.

Because that is what big brothers do.


	29. Day 193

**Day 193**

On the one hundred ninety-third day since the battle fought at the foot of the Lonely Mountain, the sun dawns on a world different from the one Fíli has known for the last six and a half months. A world in which his brother is still alive.

And not just that. He's right there in front of him, almost within arm's reach, the first hesitant sunrays touching his dark hair, damp with sweat after the battle they have just fought. Fíli cannot seem to take his eyes off Kíli. Seeing him now, in the bright light of day, somehow makes it all even more real than it has been in the darkness of night, when fact and fantasy are often so much harder to tell apart.

Right now, Fíli watches as Kíli examines the leg of his fire-haired Elf – his _wife_, as insane as that sounds – with uncommon tenderness. There's a wound on her calf that looks like a bite and even though her face is averted from him, Fíli can tell that it gives her a considerable amount of discomfort. She, too, is watching Kíli, who appears to know what he's doing as he begins pulling several items from a small leather satchel he's had stowed underneath his cloak and sets to treating the injury.

Fíli steps closer, intrigued by his brother's practiced actions. They've had to treat each other's wounds while on the road more than once, but mostly this has consisted of tying a more or less clean strip of cloth over the injury and then hurrying to get to Óin to have it looked at properly. What Kíli is doing now, however, is a different thing altogether and speaks of no small amount of training.

"When did you learn to do that?" Fíli asks while Kíli applies a paste of a dark purple color to the raised flesh around Tauriel's wound.

Kíli continues his work for a few moments, his whole attention fixed on his task. "I picked up a few bits here and there," he finally says, leaving Fíli with even more questions than before. When Kíli finally looks up, it is not Fíli whom he fixes his eyes on, but Tauriel. "I learned from the best," he comments and grins.

A look passes between the two of them and Fíli feels compelled to drop his gaze when a stab of jealousy pierces his heart. It used to be him whom Kíli shared his secret jokes with, only him, for so many years. Clearly that has changed now and even though Kíli has done his best to defend Tauriel's innocence when it comes to the course of events after the battle, Fíli cannot help but regard her as an intruder upon the relationship between him and his brother.

"I am glad to find you well."

Tauriel's voice, quiet and not yet overly familiar, startles Fíli out of his grim musings and he looks up to find her studying him with trepidation in her eyes.

"Surprised, but glad," she adds when she can be sure to have his attention. A faint blush has risen to her cheeks, but she holds his gaze, her eyes widening by a fraction when she is confronted with some of his darker feelings. But no matter how hard he tries, Fíli cannot detect any malicious intention in her expression, no secret regret that he and Kíli have been reunited.

Well if she felt that way, she would probably not have saved your life just a few hours ago, he reminds himself. He and Kíli had been fully engaged in the battle with the goblins, fighting side by side like they had not done for months. Maybe he had gotten a little too carried away in his enthusiasm, or maybe it was just another instance of rotten luck, but suddenly Fíli found his back being jumped by one of the hostile creatures.

Before he fully registered what was happening, before he even had time to panic, the whirring sound of an arrow cut through the air, and Fíli felt the impact when it hit the goblin, causing the creature to release its hold onto him with a gargling sound issuing forth from its ugly, twisted lips. When Fíli whipped his head around in search of the arrow's source, he spotted her further uphill, her bow still clutched in her long, pale fingers. The Elf who had stepped in to save his brother countless of times already. Fantastic. Now he owed her his life as well.

There hadn't been time to ruminate on Tauriel's reasons for saving him just then, with the goblin attack still in full swing. Now, though, as Fíli looks at her smooth, almost too perfect features, her feelings laid bare for him to see, he comes to the conclusion that she must not have had any ulterior motives in saving his life. He does not know much about her, but what he does know is that she loves his brother deeply. If he hasn't been convinced of that fact before last night, just the way that she looks at Kíli is enough to do so now. She saved him because of her love for Kíli and Fíli cannot find fault in that.

"Thank you," he says, hoping that if he does not manage to put an awful lot of warmth into his voice, he at least manages to sound sincere. "For taking out that goblin. He did get a little too close for comfort."

A smile lights up the Elf's face, making her beauty almost painful to look at_. _"My pleasure."

Despite his very best efforts, Fíli feels warmth creep up his neck and he quickly ducks his head, pretending to be entirely caught up with watching Kíli work again. His brother is now busy dressing the wound, eyes focused on his task. Still, Fíli thinks he sees a pleased smile grace Kíli's lips.

After another minute or two, Kíli straightens up, taking a hold of Tauriel's hands to assist her as she slowly shifts her weight onto her injured leg. "How does that feel?" he asks, his eyes shooting back down to her leg to study his own handiwork critically.

"Much better," Tauriel assures him. They continue to hold onto each other, losing themselves in each other's gaze for a bit. Fíli looks away, made uncomfortable by his intrusion upon this private moment between his brother and his wife. His eyes flit to the form of Kíli's other companion instead, a giant wolf that has taken up position a few feet away from where they are currently standing and that has been alternating between keeping a rigorous watch over Kíli and Tauriel and sending murderous glares in the general direction of everyone else.

It's a Mirkwood wolf, Fíli believes, for it is much too large to be an ordinary wolf. Until today, Fíli has not been entirely sure whether the giant wolves said to inhabit the northern regions of Mirkwood are not merely the stuff of fables. As soon as he laid eyes on this particular specimen, though, any doubts about its origin were instantly eclipsed.

In his initial shock over the presence of the wolf and Kíli's declaration that the animal was with him – really, Kíli, an Elf _and_ a giant wolf? – he did not really pause to study the animal, but now that he does (and feels safe to do so with Kíli there to stop it from ripping him to shreds), Fíli realizes that he has seen the wolf before, in a dream. Back then he thought it was a nightmare, but what if it was more? Stranger things have happened, at least in Kíli's more recent history, so who is to say that the connection he and his brother have cultivated through all the years they've spent on this Earth together did not extend into the realm of the preternatural after external circumstances ripped them from each other's sides?

There are so many questions he wants to ask Kíli, for clearly there is still much about the months spent apart that his brother has not yet revealed to him. Before he can even begin to formulate any of those, however, fate stages yet another intervention in the form of Dori running up to meet them. His face is quite red from exertion, but underneath all the huffing and puffing, Fíli can tell immediately that his friend does not come as the bearer of good news.

"It's Thad. He's hurt so badly that he probably won't last much longer. You should come."

His worst fears confirmed by Dori's announcement, Fíli briefly closes his eyes. Not Thad. Not anyone, if he had a say in such matters, but of all the Dwarves in his company the two brothers are probably his most vulnerable spot. He may not know Thad and Flad for as long as some of the others, but has come to care deeply for them, his protectiveness for them somewhat resembling that which he feels on behalf of Kíli. To think that one of the two might be forced to watch the other die... it seems a cruel reversal of things, with one set of brothers reunited while the other stands at the brink of being torn apart for all eternity.

"I will be right there," he hears himself address Dori, a familiar numbness spreading quickly inside his mind. It does not matter whither he turns – there is always death and destruction to be met. "I have to go and pay my respects," he says to Kíli and his Elf, both of whom are studying him with concern. "Thad has been the most loyal of fighters and a good friend."

How on Earth is he to comfort Flad? He knows how his friend must feel right now, just as he knows that there is no remedy for his pain. But go to him he must and stand by him just as the brothers have done for him, for all these months, without ever asking anything in return.

"Maybe we can help."

Kíli's voice causes Fíli to pause and turn back around to look at his brother in surprise. Written all over Kíli's face he finds the sort of stubborn determination that usually makes his brother either do something very brave or very reckless.

Fíli's first impulse is to say no. If things are as bad as Dori says (and there is no reason to distrust his account), then he does not want to waste Thad's final moments on a futile attempt to save him. But then his eyes fall onto the leather satchel Kíli carries. He's just witnessed with his own eyes that Kíli has apparently obtained some new skills during their separation. And as for Tauriel... he has seen her achieve the impossible before when she pulled Kíli back from the shadows and whatever it was that brought him and Kíli back to life after the battle, Elven magic has played a substantial part in it.

Perhaps it is worth a try after all. Except for Bofur, who is the only one in his present company who witnessed the miracle of Kíli's recovery back at Lake-town, no one will be particularly happy to turn to Elven healing to save one of their own. But that does not matter – not if it's what is going to save Thad's life.

Fíli's eyes lock onto Kíli's and he nods. "Come, then. It did not sound as if Thad has much time left."

Kíli and Tauriel exchange a quick glance and then proceed to follow Fíli back to the waterfall at a brisk pace. Neither of them spares the spectacle of the water glistening in the early morning sun a second glance as they make their way into the largest of the caverns concealed behind the waterfall.

Most of the Dwarves in Fíli's company appear to have found their way into this particular cave by now, either nursing an injury of their own or tending to those of others. In a corner, Fíli sees Bofur attempting to bind Bifur's sprained wrist. Bifur keeps slapping his brother's hands away, clearly deeming the bandage an unnecessary fuss. All other injuries Fíli notes in passing are relatively minor from the look of it – except that sustained by Thad, whose unconscious form Fíli soon discerns at the far end of the cavern.

The group of Dwarves huddled around the patient steps back respectfully when Fíli approaches. He nods to them, catching Dwalin's eye for a moment. He looks worried, and rightly so. As Fíli turns his attention to the injured Dwarf in the ground before him, he finds Thad deathly pale, his eyes sunken and bis breathing extremely shallow. There are several bloodied rags piled on the floor next to him, a circumstance for which the gaping wound in the blond Dwarf's shoulder must be responsible. Dori was right. This does not look good at all.

Fíli swallows against the heavy lump in his throat as he kneels next to Flad, who is crouched on the floor beside his brother, his lean form shaking with barely suppressed sobs.

"Flad," Fíli manages, his own voice thick with his pain, "I have brought someone who might be able to help your brother. Will you let them take a look at him?"

He's dimly aware of a surprised whisper passing through the small crowd gathered around them at his announcement, but ignores it completely, his whole attention focused on his friend.

When Flad shifts his bloodshot gaze to him, Fíli's heart breaks for his young friend, for he recognizes the agony behind his troubled eyes. It has, after all, held him, too, in its clutches for many months after the battle.

Flad barely glances at Kíli and Tauriel before he shakes his head. "It's too late. He's halfway gone already. There is nothing anyone could do."

Fíli shares a brief look with Kíli, hoping that the faith he is willing to put into him will not bring them all even more pain. Then he reaches out a steadying hand to clasp Flad's trembling shoulder, asking for his trust.

"These two believe that they can. I think you should let them try."

"We can save your brother," Kíli adds, and Flad looks up at him as he steps closer. "But he does not have much time."

Flad hesitates for another few seconds, but then Fíli senses a shift in his friend's demeanor and he rises to his feet, his eyes wide and hopeful as he stares at Kíli and the Elf at his side.

Kíli and Tauriel do not waste another moment, each kneeling down on one side of Thad's lifeless body. Fíli comes to stand beside Flad, again placing his hand on the red-headed Dwarf's shoulder while they watch the younger Durin brother and his Elven companion set to work.

It is oddly calming to Fíli's troubled mind to observe the pair of them going about their task, each of their moves practiced and confident. They communicate with each other mostly through looks and hushed remarks, seeming to be guided by a shared intuition of what needs to be done next. They clean and treat Thad's wound with swiftness and precision. Fíli is so absorbed in watching them work, that it takes him a second or two to notice when they have stopped.

"What's the matter?"

Kíli's question is voiced softly enough so that only those standing closest can hear it. Tauriel, Fíli now notices, is holding several clean bandages in her hands, but is making no move to dress Thad's wound. Instead, she leans over the form of the unconscious Dwarf and examines him. Fíli cannot really see what she is doing, but when she straightens up again, she mutters something in Elvish and then turns to look at Kíli. "The blade responsible for this injury was poisoned. Even if the wound does not kill him, he will drift into the shadows before too long."

Fíli does not need to be versed in the art of healing to know what his means, for he has seen it happen before. He bites down on the inside of his cheek to stop a curse from escaping his lips. Kíli, too, does not seem happy with this bit of news and closes his eyes, his lips twisting with the pain of unpleasant memories. When he opens his eyes again, they seek and hold Tauriel's gaze, their usually so warm, brown shade now cold with grim determination.

"Then we know what we must do," Kíli says.

There can only be one thing his brother is talking about, and Fíli finds himself slightly confused by Kíli's use of the pronoun 'we'. As if reading his thoughts, Kíli turns his head to look directly at Fíli and it seems as if there is something he wants to say but does not have the words for. Then the moment passes and Kíli once more shifts his attention to Tauriel, who has begun crushing the leaves of a plant which Fíli would recognize anywhere after their time in Lake-town - Kingsfoil.

The distinctive smell of the herb transports Fíli back to those hours in Bard's house when his abstract fear of losing his brother turned into deadly certainty with every minute that passed, with every degree by which Kíli's fever rose. Back then, Sigrid and he were barely more than strangers to each other and he suddenly has the most irrational longing of being able to travel back in time and tell his former self that the young girl who has welcomed them into her home without question and tried to help save his brother will one day become his rock, his reason to keep going, and that no matter how dark his days will become, the light which she carries inside of her will enough for both of them. Perhaps, he thinks, that knowledge would have made the horror of everything that happened after that easier to bear.

Commanding himself to be done with such silly, sentimental nonsense right this instant, Fíli drags his consciousness back to the present and finds Kíli and Tauriel engaged in a whispered conversation over Thad's limp form. Kíli looks doubtful while Tauriel continues to speak to him with urgency in her gaze and finally Kíli nods, squaring his shoulders.

Before Fíli has time to reflect on what all that may have been about, the pair of them reach out with their hands at the same instant, Tauriel pressing some of the now soggy Kingsfoil leaves into Kíli's hand. That Kíli should assist his wife in treating the injury with the herbal paste comes as no surprise to Fíli. What his brother does next, however, is much more puzzling.

Kíli appears to have frozen on the spot, his hands hovering above the injury to Thad's shoulder. His eyes are closed, but Fíli can see them move rapidly behind their lids, searching for something no one but his brother can see. Their movement grows calmer, after a while, and eventually they grow perfectly still. Kíli's mouth, a hard line at first, has gone slack and then... Well. Then he begins to chant.

It begins as a low hum, so low, in fact, that it takes Fíli several moments to realize that it is his brother who is making this sound. After a few repetitions of the same pattern, those vague sounds begin to flow into distinctive words, words which Fíli does not understand. But he does not have to in order to grasp their meaning, in order to know what Kíli is doing. He's saving Thad.

At some point Tauriel's soft, melodic voice joins in with Kíli's and it is then that Fíli senses something in the air around him shift, like the pieces of a whole coming together. He knows it is going to happen before it does, but that does not make the bright light which gradually begins to envelop Kíli, Tauriel, and Thad any less blinding, and Fíli raises his hands to shield his eyes.

Then it is over, the light in the cavern returning to its normal levels. Fíli lowers his hands to stare at his brother, utterly dumbfounded by what he just witnessed. Did Kíli really just use Elven magic to heal Thad? Kíli's eyes are open again, but he still seems in a bit of a trance, his chest rising and falling quickly with each breath.

A gasp cuts through the silence, and Fíli's attention is drawn to Thad. He's conscious and clearly in quite a bit of pain, but his eyes dart around the cavern, taking in his surroundings with alertness. A relieved sob tears from Flad's chest and he rushes forward, dropping to his knees at his brother's side.

Fíli turns his head when a large hand is placed onto his shoulder and he finds himself gazing into Dwalin's face, the older Dwarf's brow furrowed in a confused frown. Fíli gives a small shake of his head in answer to his friend's unspoken question. He, too, has no idea whatsoever how Kíli was able to do what he just did.

Turning back around, he observes that Kíli, who is still kneeling on the ground and has merely scooted back a little to make room for Flad, is looking rather pale. The energy that surrounded him mere moments ago appears to have left him and now he seems exhausted, with strands of his dark hair clinging to his damp forehead.

Tauriel has left her spot at Thad's side and has crossed over to Kíli. They speak to each other in tones too low to be overheard before Kíli hoists himself to his feet and makes his way to the mouth of the cave, where he pauses and looks over his shoulder, his hesitant eyes finding Fíli's gaze. Fíli, still at a complete loss over the events of the last few minutes, merely inclines his head, signaling to his brother that he will follow him before too long. They have much to discuss still. More, it appears, than Fíli originally thought. Before he throws himself into this conversation, though, he wants to make sure that everyone else is alright.

Flad is just rising to his feet when Fíli turns back around, and before he can open his mouth to speak, he finds himself enfolded in the younger Dwarf's arms.

"He'll live," Flad says, his voice muffled against Fíli's shoulder. "I do not understand how this is at all possible, but he'll live."

Returning his friend's embrace, Fíli mutters, "That makes two of us."

Over Flad's shoulder, he sees that Tauriel has returned to Thad's side and is dressing his wound – which looks considerably less stomach-turning than it did just half an hour ago – with clean bandages. If she is at all troubled by the suspicious glances of some of the cavern's other occupants, she does not show it, working with steady hands and a neutral expression.

Flad loosens his hold onto him and comes to stand beside Fíli instead, gazing at his brother, who has fallen into a deep, exhausted slumber, with a tender expression.

"It would appear that I am not the only one to whom a brother was returned when such a thing was thought quite impossible."

"Aye, it would appear so indeed." Fíli tries for a smile, but it's a rather tired one. As wonderful as some of the events of last night have been, they are only now beginning to catch up with him and leave him more than a little exhausted. "I will explain it all in due course," he says to Flad. "Once I fully understand it myself, that is."

"No worries," Flad returns with a lopsided grin. "I know a thing or two about what it's like to have a reckless little brother to look after. It can be a lot, sometimes."

Fíli isn't entirely sure whether Flad is in any way inferior to Thad when it comes to a certain tendency for reckless behavior, but he grins nevertheless, clapping his friend on his back. "That is certainly true. Still, I couldn't be happier for you."

"And I for you. Clearly you and Kíli belong with each other – nothing can break such a bond, right?"

With that statement left hanging in the air, Flad leaves Fíli to return to Thad's side. Fíli looks at the pair of them with a thoughtful frown. In how far he and Kíli really still belong with each other – that is something that the next few hours shall determine. And he is not altogether convinced whether he even wants to know the answer.

He briefly joins Dwalin, who has retreated to the sidelines to watch the scene before him unfold with his arms folded across his broad chest.

"I must go and speak with Kíli," Fíli informs him. "This might take some time. Will you be alright here, for a while?"

Dwalin grumbles something about having managed quite well for many years without some youngster to watch over him, but then grunts his agreement.

Fíli tries and fails to suppress a grin. "Thank you. And keep an eye on Kíli's Elf while she's still here. He won't forgive me if anyone lays so much as a finger on her."

"He's really quite serious about that, then?"

Fíli barks a laugh. "You have no idea."

Dwalin's eyebrows shoot up questioningly, but Fíli does not elaborate. Leave the honor of explaining to their brethren how he ended up married to an Elf to Kíli himself.

He quits the cave after that, briefly speaking to some members of his company on his way out. Everyone is exhausted after another night without proper rest, but other than that, spirits are not as low as you might expect them to be. It would be risky to stay at the caverns much longer, but for the day, Fíli deems it safe enough. Let everyone recover and get their strength back up and then, maybe, they can finally cross those blasted mountains.

Outside, Fíli walks into a wall of hot, humid air, a result of last night's rains and the intense glare of the morning sun. He has no trouble following his brother's tracks. Clearly, Kíli has meant for him to do so, for Fíli knows he can be quite good at confounding potential followers if need be.

A short hike leads Fíli to a spot on the riverbank about half a mile further downstream. Kneeling on the gravelly ground near the water's edge, Kíli is busy rinsing out a couple of rags, pausing, from time to time, to wipe away the sweat gathering on his forehead and at the back of his neck.

Kíli does not look up when Fíli approaches and his dark eyes remain fixed on the fabric soaking in the water in front of him even as Fíli sits down next to him, resting his elbows on his knees.

"That was certainly... something," Fíli says when it becomes clear that Kíli will not be the one to break the silence.

Kíli's shoulders tense up before his breath rushes from his lungs in a deep sigh. "I know. It—it's hard to explain. And probably even harder to understand."

"I can imagine. It strikes me that marrying an elf is the least strange thing to happen to you in the past few months."

Fíli is relieved when his attempt at humor is met with a small laugh. "You might say so indeed." Fíli watches as Kíli lifts his head to gaze out over the water, his eyes unseeing. "I did not simply ride off into the sunset with her after the battle, you know. In fact, I waited so long until I finally allowed what was between us to become real that it was almost too late."

"I believe you."

It is the truth and so it does not cost Fíli any pain to say it. He did not really mean what he said upon finding out where his brother had gone after the battle, about how Kíli abandoned them all to chase after a lass. However, that neither changes nor lessens his nearly overwhelming sense of betrayal.

"I still cannot wrap my head around the fact that you left," Fíli admits, staring at his hands as they swim before his eyes with the onset of tears. He blinks them away.

Kíli drops to the ground beside him, sitting so close that Fíli can hear the trembling of his brother's breath as he draws up his knees in an imitation of his own posture.

"I was in a bad place after the battle," Kíli says, still staring straight ahead in an obvious effort to maintain his composure. "And aside from all that grief, all that pain, I felt so terribly guilty. Guilty over being alive when so many, including Thorin and yourself, had died. Guilty over being the reason why Tauriel had been exiled from her home."

Huh. That's new. "She was?"

"Aye – as her punishment for following us to Lake-town. For coming to save me. I thought that, if there was nothing else I could do to undo the damage already done, I might at least convince her king to lift her banishment. So I made a deal with him – if he took us both back to Mirkwood, I would find a way to help him get back those gems he and Thorin were quarrelling over."

By Durin's beard. Fíli has been wondering how Kíli gained entrance to Thranduil's kingdom but thought it would have had something to do with Tauriel calling in a favor with her king. That it has been the other way round, essentially, is more than a little insane.

"And he went with that? The Elvenking, I mean?"

Kíli nods, an almost smug smile playing around his lips. "He did. Although I am not entirely sure why. Back then, I did not care. I had gotten my wish and was permitted to accompany Tauriel back to her home in the woods."

"Which provided you with a perfect way of escaping the responsibility you thought would fall to you if you stayed," The words are out before Fíli can stop himself and he watches with a sickening mixture of guilt and satisfaction as Kíli's shoulders sag with shame.

"As I said, I was in a bad place at the time."

The dejection in Kíli's voice helps Fíli cast aside his own demons for a moment and he shifts, turning to face Kíli. "But you are in a better place now?"

Much depends on Kíli's answer to this question. Fíli's destiny is painfully clear – he has accepted the crown and the responsibility it symbolizes. Kíli, meanwhile, has chosen a path quite far off the beaten track. Now that they have found each other again, will his little brother be willing to return to his side and to the life they had cut out for them since they were children?

Fíli's stomach clenches when Kíli squeezes his eyes shut, pain distorting his features.

"I am not the same Dwarf you set out with on what we thought would be the glorious quest to reclaim our homeland. You have just witnessed with your own eyes how much I have changed."

That may be true, but Fíli finds that he would not care if Kíli had grown a second head during his absence – he would still be his brother and Fíli would still want him at his side.

"Maybe you need something to remind yourself of that Dwarf whose dream it was to see the halls of his forefathers with his own eyes."

Kíli's eyes widen in surprise when Fíli reaches inside the collar of his tunic and pulls out the runestone he keeps concealed there. Tugging sharply to break the knot that keeps the leather cord tied around his neck together, Fíli places the stone in Kíli's hand, mourning the loss of its familiar weight against his chest. Who, though, if not Kíli would have a right to lay a claim on this precious talisman of his?

"How– how did you get this?" Kíli whispers, his voice choked with emotion.

"Once I had recovered enough to do so, I went back to Ravenhill. The others had found some parts of your armor up there when they first searched for you, but we still had no idea what had happened to you. The conviction that you really had died was beginning to spread, but I just couldn't give up and so I went back. That's when I found it."

Fíli sees himself forced to stop there, the memories of that day threatening to overwhelm him. It does not matter that Kíli is now sitting next to him, alive. The agony he felt that day on Ravenhill was real and he can still feel its hold over him today.

"I kept it," he goes on once he can be sure that he is not going to break down entirely, "hoping against hope that you would find a way to keep the promise it stands for."

Kíli keeps studying the stone like he has never seen it before, his mind lost in thoughts which Fíli can only guess at. Well, they're in the middle of this now anyway, so he might as well stop beating about the bush.

"We are on our way to the Blue Mountains," Fíli continues, "to convince the remainder of our people to come to Erebor. To honor the cause for which Thorin gave his life and help rebuild that greatest kingdom of the Dwarves." He pauses, gathering his courage. "Come with us. Fulfill the promise you made to our mother."

Kíli closes his fist around the rune stone, clenching his fingers so tightly that his knuckles turn white. When he looks up, tears spill from his eyes and down his cheeks, leaving glistening tracks in their wake. Fíli's heart, filled with tentative hope mere seconds ago, sinks.

"I—," Kíli begins, but cannot seem to get the words to make it past his lips. He takes a shuddering breath and tries again. "I am not sure that I am in a position to keep that promise. Not without hurting Tauriel. And I cannot—I _won't_ do that."

At those last words, Kíli has dropped his gaze to stare at the ground, and Fíli now studies the slumped form of his brother while opposing forces tear at his inside. A part of him, that which feels an indescribable hurt at being rejected, wants to lash out, to protect himself from further harm by pushing Kíli away. If Kíli wants to put someone else's well-being above that of his brother, his own flesh and blood, then fine, let him have his wish and sever all ties to his former life.

Only... it's not as simple as that, is it? For if Fíli is completely honest – which, usually, he endeavors to be – he does not find it all that difficult to put himself in his brother's shoes, and to imagine being faced with a choice that might result in breaking the heart of the woman he's sworn to cherish, to love and protect. Nor is it so very hard to admit that if it were him asked to make that choice and Sigrid the one whose happiness were at stake, his conduct would not differ from Kíli's.

Which leaves them... well, nowhere really. Or at least not anywhere close to where they used to be, for the last eight decades. Fíli sits up, the stirrings of a new resolution straightening his spine.

"Kíli. Look at me."

Kíli obeys his request, though hesitantly, his dark eyes widened with fear and pain. Fíli lifts a hand to his brother's shoulder, the familiar touch reinforcing his determination to find a way to make this right.

"If you cannot keep the promise you made," Fíli says, "then I suppose you will just have to make a new one. To me. Can you do that?"

This time there is no hesitation on Kíli's part as he nods eagerly, his red-rimmed eyes not straying from Fíli's earnest gaze. "Yes," he whispers. "Whatever you need me to do, I'll do it."

Fíli moves a little closer still, his arm sliding around Kíli's shoulder in a loose embrace. "It is not so much about what _you_ have to do, but about what we both have to do if we want this to work. I need you... I need us both to promise that we will not allow the shadow of what has come to pass between us to darken the path ahead. That we will not shy away from any opportunity to still partake in the life of the other because we fear the pain this might entail. That, even as we lead separate lives, we will never be truly separated from one another, not in our hearts. Can you do that for me, Kíli? Can you accept what has happened and move on from it, to a place yet unknown to either of us?"

"I can," Kíli promises, "I can, and I will, no matter the cost. But _you_... can you really forgive me? It was my choice that brought all of this on, after all, my actions that caused you so much pain."

It is true – out of the two of them, Fíli is the one wronged more grievously. And yet... "It was also your actions, your tenacity, your love for me, that saved my life in the first place, brother. And while that does not excuse some of the very questionable choices you made, it does count as something. But even if it didn't – I do forgive you, yes. And I promise that we will make this work, somehow."

It is with a sigh of relief bordering on a sob that Kíli leans into his embrace more fully, burying his face against the side of his neck. They sit like that for a long time, and eventually Fíli begins to outline some of the plans he and Balin began working on before he left for Ered Luin; plans to travel across Middle Earth, form new alliances where possible. Those plans lie far, far in the future and largely depend on the outcome of his current journey, but as he and Kíli paint tentative pictures of travels they might undertake together, the warmth of his confidence in the bond between himself and his brother fills Fíli for the first time in months.

When they fall silent again, there is still much left unsaid, things they will need to discuss at some point. There are still many aspects of Kíli's story which Fíli does not understand, and some, like Kíli's strange healing powers, which he suspects he never will. Fíli, too, has yet to reveal the changes in his life since he became king, particularly those revolving around a certain bowman's daughter. But that can wait. Maybe, Fíli thinks with a sudden flash of mischief, he ought to keep Kíli in the dark with regard to that last point for a while, if only to repay his brother for marrying an Elf in secret.

The only thing which does matter, now, is that Kíli and he are both willing to work on rebuilding their relationship under new terms. It will take some time and a fair bit of patience, but that's alright. If there is one thing that the last six months have taught Fíli, then it is that some things are more than worth waiting for.

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

_A/N: Again, most of the dialogue here is the same as found in The Gift. Hope it wasn't too repetitive. There is one more chapter to go plus an epilogue. Both are already written, so if things go well, I might upload them this weekend. Can't believe its almost over, even though this story turned out waaaaaaayyy longer than I originally planned..._


	30. Day 262

**Day 262**

On the two hundred sixty-second day, Fíli abandons his people on the outskirts of Dale, trusting that he will be back in time to give the newcomers their official welcome at the feast planned for this evening. Until then, the Dwarves who have elected to follow him to Erebor – which are, to his astonishment, almost all those who had still been installed at Ered Luin – will be busy greeting long-lost family members and admiring the splendor of the fabled kingdom under the mountain and he shan't be terribly missed.

As he directs his pony's steps away from the convoy of travelers, he catches his mother's gaze. When she is sure she has his attention, Dís nods and smiles tightly, a rare sentimental glint moistening her eye.

Fíli hesitates, wondering if he shouldn't be at his mother's side when she reenters the kingdom of Erebor for the first time since she was a young girl, but then the moment passes and Dís leans closer to Dwalin once more, resuming their previous conversation. She'll be fine, Fíli tells himself, and besides, she's far from alone on this final stage of their journey. Also, he knows that if he were to turn back now, she would have words with him later for chickening out at the last moment.

Contrary to what he might have expected, Dís took the news that he loved and hoped to marry the daughter of the King of Dale in stride and has been nothing but supportive (even if a bit too inquisitive at times). Maybe this is owed to the fact that in comparison to Kíli's unexpected survival and his highly controversial choice of a partner, Fíli's own course of action looks entirely reasonable and more or less compliant with any expectations his mother might have had for him. Or maybe Dís just wants him to be happy after the things he has lived through this past year - Mahal knows that he's had his fair share of both grief and heartache. Either way, the long conversations he and his mother have had on their eastbound journey across Middle Earth are part of the reason why he is here now, about to throw himself into yet another adventure, even though this one is rather more delicate than that which he has just returned from.

He gallops up to the city gates where he entrust Arran to the hands of one of the guards, asking him to provide the pony with some much needed water. Apprehension tightens his chest as he walks into Dale, but he quickly finds himself distracted by the bustle of city life in the late afternoon.

The months on the road have not been lonely – far from it, actually, with their traveling party having grown considerably for their return journey. Still, life in those weeks was characterized by a quiet routine, days spent making as much progress as possible, and nights huddled around the campfire, talking to Dís, mostly, reminiscing about times past and making plans for ventures to be undertaken in the future – such as the one he is about to embark on now.

"It is the honorable thing to do," Fíli hears his mother's voice echo in his head. "Even if you find it difficult, even if it bears a certain risk – you must do it. The sooner, the better."

When he looked doubtful still, she slapped him playfully on the back of his head. "Stop being such a coward." A roguish grin lit up her face. "You are our king, are you not? When push comes to shove, you can do what you like and no one will dare question you. So you might as well follow your heart."

Dís has never much liked to hear it, but it is her that Kíli has inherited his rebellious character and his penchant for reckless maneuvers from. Fíli, meanwhile, has always been said to be taking after his father, but since he has scarcely any memory of him, he has never been able to judge the truth of that assessment.

Be that as it may, he has now come to Dale to take the first step necessary if he wants to heed Dís's advice (although, with his mother, advice and instruction are not always so easily distinguished). As he weaves his way through the throngs of people populating the narrow streets, his stomach is in nervous knots. A few streets in, he begins to notice that those whom he passes keep throwing him curious glances. Perhaps he should not have come straight from the road, looking travel-worn and in dire need of a hot bath, but, well, it's too late for that now. And besides, any additional day that he might have put this off for would have seemed like one day to many. The two months he had planned to be absent have turned into more than three, and now he's impatient to attend to the business he left unfinished upon his departure.

Before too long he reaches the market square at the center of the city and stops before the tall building looming over it. The high windows reflect the light of the afternoon sun, and he has to shield his eyes against their glare, his throat suddenly rather dry. With sweat gathering at the back of his neck, he makes for the door, but finds it bolted shut.

"Master's gone home for the day," the owner of a nearby market stall informs him. "Some sort of family emergency, from what I heard."

Fíli turns towards the old man and watches as his watery eyes widen in recognition. The people of Dale may have their own king, but the authority of the King under the Mountain is respected here as well, to some degree. Quickly, the man lowers his head.

"What sort of emergency?" Fíli asks, a sense of dark foreboding taking hold of him.

"Can't say, sir," the man mumbles, clearly not comfortable in his presence. "Something to do with one of his daughters, I reckon."

Oh no. Not that. Before the merchant has straightened up again, Fíli has turned away again and is hurrying back the way he came from, his feet carrying him up the alley where Bard lives with his children.

Not hesitating this time, he rushes up to the house, but before his knuckles make contact with the door on which he intended to knock, it is wrenched open from the inside and Fíli finds himself face to face with Bard himself.

The bowman's eyes widen in surprise as he stops dead and looks down at the Dwarf on his doorstep. "You!" he exclaims, but then clears his throat, gathering his composure. "Forgive me – I knew you had returned, but wasn't expecting you today." He takes another look at Fíli. "What's the matter? You look like you've seen a ghost."

Not a ghost, Fíli thinks, but the spectre of his worst fears materializing before his inner eye. "Your children – are they alright?"

"My children? Why would—"

"I was told you had been called home for an emergency."

"Ah, that. Yes – nothing to worry about. Tilda fell of a horse – again – and scraped her knee. She screamed bloody murder, scaring everyone within a hundred feet half to death, but she will be just fine. In fact, she's already out and about once more, no doubt causing some mischief."

His breath rushes out of Fíli's lungs as some of the tension that has carried him to Bard's doorstep leaves him. His bad luck seemed to have eased up on him a little during those past few, quiet weeks, but still he would not have been entirely surprised to find that something terrible has happened to Sigrid on the very day that he finally returns to her.

In his relief, he has momentarily forgotten all about the man still standing before him and now finds himself thoroughly scrutinized by Bard. "What are you doing here?" the bowman asks, as usually getting straight to the point.

Fíli swallows, but forces himself to hold Bard's gaze. "There is something that I need to speak to you about. Is this a convenient time?"

Bard's eyebrows shoot up. "As convenient as any, I suppose. I was about to return to the town hall, but seeing that you are here already, why don't you come upstairs."

He holds the door open for Fíli to step through. It would be rather suspicious behavior indeed if Fíli refused this invitation and so he gives himself a push and crosses the doorstep, even though he would much rather have had this conversation in a place that is not also Bard's private home. As he follows the King of Dale up to his study, Fíli strains his ears and eyes for any sign that Sigrid might be about, but all is quiet, the small house apparently deserted. It's just as well, he thinks. If things go badly, Sigrid should not have to bear witness to whatever the outcome of this whole business might be.

In Bard's study, Fíli's eyes are immediately drawn to the spot on the floor where he and Flad covered up the boy soldier's body all those months ago. He swallows against the tightness in his throat. "How is Alva?"

Bard sinks into the chair behind his desk with a small sigh. "About as might be expected. She gets on very well with the girls, though. Tilda especially. Keeping an eye on her distracts Alva from thinking too much about everything that she has lost."

Fíli nods in understanding. He knows a thing or two about that, even though his own loss, as it has turned out, is not as devastating as he had believed, for a long time.

"From what has been reported to me, the party of Dwarves marching past Dale towards Erebor just a few hours ago has been a rather large one," Bard says, pulling Fíli from his thoughts. "I assume your undertaking has been a success, then?"

"It has," Fíli confirms, embracing the change of topic. "Many have followed my invitation to relocate to the mountain and more will follow still from other Dwarven settlements, in the months to come."

"That is good news for both Erebor and for Dale," Bard concludes. "What is that urgent matter you wanted to discuss, then? It sounds as if things are, for once, going according to plan."

"They are indeed," Fíli says haltingly. By Durin's beard, how is one supposed to breach such a topic? By jumping in head first, would be Kíli's advice, probably, and Fíli suspects that Dís would agree with his brother. He takes a deep breath. "Before I left, I was not entirely honest with you."

"With regard to what?" Bard seems genuinely puzzled as he leans forward in his chair, fixing Fíli with a stare that nearly makes him squirm in his own chair.

Fíli clears his throat. "An agreement between me and your oldest daughter."

"Sigrid? I'm afraid I don't—what sort of agreement?"

Mahal, Bard is really going to make him spell it out, isn't he? Unable to hold the bow man's gaze, Fíli fixes his eyes on a spot on the wall. "The sort made between two people who... _care _very deeply for each other."

When Fíli finally musters enough courage to once more look at Bard directly, he finds on his face not the murderous fury he has feared, but something much less easily defined. A fair amount of horror, yes, but also something else that almost looks like concern.

"Oh ye gods," Bard moans after several moments of bewildered silence. He runs the back of his hand across his lips once, as if to rid himself of an unwelcome taste. "This is what has had everyone so worried. I thought you were different, thought that you would not be so easily affected. I see it now, though, see that the same madness that has tormented your uncle has taken possession of you."

"I assure you that is not what—hold on, people have just been _waiting_ for me to lose my marbles?"

Fíli bristles at the thought, but Bard does not even appear to be listening to him, rising from his chair to stalk across the room in a state of agitation.

"When you gave up your claim to the Arkenstone, I truly believed that we could leave the past behind us, but clearly that is not so. Clearly you are utterly, hopelessly mad."

"I am no such thing."

Fíli's voice is firm and something in his tone causes Bard to pause and whirl back around, studying the young Dwarf king with wild eyes. "Then pray tell me, what is all this?"

"This is me asking for your daughter's hand in marriage."

That is the moment Fíli expects Bard to reach for a weapon and aim it at his head, and if not that, to deliver a blow to his nose with one of the fists currently clenched tightly at the bowman's sides. A loud bang does indeed follow his words, but it's not produced by a weapon or by an act of bodily violence. The door to the study bursts open, crashing against the bookshelf placed behind it, and a blurred shape comes flying into the room, hurling itself at Fíli.

He nearly falls out of his chair when slender, surprisingly strong arms are wrapped around his neck.

"You're here, you've come back. Finally, you've come back," Sigrid murmurs against the side of his neck.

"Sigrid!"

Before Fíli has any chance to respond to Sigrid's enthusiastic greeting, Bard's outraged cry cuts through the air like a clap of thunder. With obvious reluctance, Sigrid loosens her embrace and straightens up to stand beside Fíli's chair, biting her lip. Fíli, too, feels compelled to rise, if only to be able to make a fast escape should the need arise. He risks a quick smile at Sigrid, resisting the urge to reach for her, before focusing his attention on Bard once more.

The King of Dale currently sports a bright red face, his eyes flitting quickly between his daughter and the Dwarf. beside her. Eventually they come to rest on Sigrid. "What is the meaning of this? And don't start acting all innocent on me, I know you've been listening outside that door. Explain."

Sigrid ducks her head slightly, her guilty grin confirming Bard's accusation about her eavesdropping. "I thought Fíli made his meaning rather clear. He is asking me to marry him."

"And what would make him think that this is something you would ever consider doing?" The sternness of Bard's gaze would suffice to make braver men than Fíli fidget under his scrutinity, but Sigrid does not even flinch.

"Really, Da?" The hint of exasperation in her voice makes Fíli look up in surprise just in time to catch her rolling her eyes at her father. "I have been dropping hints about this to you for weeks now. Have you really not put two and two together before today?"

Shock evidently holds Bard in its grasp tightly enough to make him open and close his mouth several times without any sound escaping his lips. "Him?" he finally exclaims. "When you were going on about someone who had caught your eye, but whom I might not approve of, you were talking about _him_? I thought it was that stable boy you've been seeing so much of – Ulf, wasn't that his name?"

Fíli resists the jealous impulse to ask who Ulf is in favor of another, more pressing question. "You've been dropping hints about us? Are you mad?"

This time, Sigrid's eye-roll is directed at him. "Far from it. I thought that it would soften the blow a little if he began harboring some suspicions."

"If he had found out, who knows what he—"

"He didn't, though, as you have just witnessed. And either way, it doesn't make a difference now, not when he—"

"_He_ is standing right here, in the name of the gods," Bard interrupts their bickering. They both turn to face his dangerous glare once more. "And still waiting for an explanation."

Sigrid sighs. "There is not much to explain. We love each other and want to spend the rest of our lives together. No more, and no less."

Her voice has grown softer at the declaration of their mutual feelings, and this time Fíli cannot stop himself from reaching for her hand and squeezing it briefly in his. The bright smile she directs at him then momentarily has him under a spell, one which is only broken when Bard stalks back to his desk, muttering to himself under his breath. He produces a glass and a bottle from a small cabinet behind the desk and pours himself a generous measure, draining the glass with one large gulp and refilling it immediately. Fíli is not suicidal enough to ask for a drink as well, even though Mahal knows he is in dire need of one.

With his palms resting on either side of his glass, Bard lifts his head to glare at Sigrid and Fíli over the expanse of his cluttered desk. "You are quite serious about this, then? This is not some insane joke?"

"Perfectly serious," Sigrid answers.

"I would lay down my life for your daughter," Fíli adds sincerely, but considering the look from the bowman which his comment earns him, he might as well have kept silent.

Bard falls into his chair with a groan. "I do not like this. Not at all."

"You do not have to like it," Sigrid says, not taking her eyes of her father. "I'm merely asking you to accept it. For this is not something that is going to go away. Not ever."

This time it is her who reaches for Fíli, enwining her fingers with his and not letting go. They share a look of complete mutual understanding. Months apart have done no harm to their bond and Fíli is almost surprised by how easy, how natural it feels to continue right where they left off.

Bard, meanwhile, has taken to staring morosely at the contents of his glass. "It will take me some time to get used to the idea of this. A lot of time, I suspect."

"We'll get out of your way then." Sigrid gives a tug on Fíli's hand. When he hesitates to follow her, wondering if he shouldn't say something else in order to convince Bard of the sincerity of his feelings, she discreetly clears her throat and motions for him to follow her.

With Bard still glaring at his brandy with enough venom that Fíli half fears he might set the liquid on fire, they silently creep towards the door. "Trust me," Sigrid whispers as they cross the threshold, "it is better to leave him be, for a while. He will be much more easily handled once he's had time to wallow in his misery."

"I heard that!" Bard calls from his seat, but Sigrid has already pulled the door closed behind her and taken Fíli by his hand again, leading him away from her father's study and towards the stairs.

They stumble down the stairs in a bit of a hurry to get out of the house, bursting into the street below with breathless excitement fuelling their steps. They neither speak nor let go of each other as they navigate the narrow alleys, drawing but not heeding some curious looks by those whom they pass. Wild tales of what binds the King of Erebor and the Princess of Dale together (some of them not that far off their mark) will keep the city gossip busy for days after, but the subjects of those tales will be far to occupied making up for lost time to either notice or care.

Out through the city gates they go, and it is only once they have reached the illusion of privacy provided by their old meeting place that they stop to take a breath. In the shadow cast by the crumbling walls of the disused guardhouse, Sigrid throws her arms around Fíli's neck, and this time he returns her embrace without hesitition, crushing her to himself as fiercely as he can without hurting her.

For a seemingly endless sequence of nights he has dreamed of this moment when finally he will be allowed to hold his love in his arms again. And it is everything he imagined it to be and more; to feel the rapid beating of her heart where her chest is pressed against his, to inhale those sweet scents that always seem to vary depending on what she has been doing on that day but under which he catches an essence that is truly and uniquely hers, to hear her breath hitch in her throat with either a little laugh or a small sob (or both) – those are the things which his memory was unable to recreate for him during those lonely nights he's spent gazing at the stars, wondering if she, too, is lying awake and watching the constellations that populate the sky.

It is only when they break apart after several minutes that the events of the last hour finally catch up with him. "He's going to kill me, isn't he?" he groans, releasing Sigrid to rake his fingers through his hair. "He'll have me assassinated in my sleep."

Sigrid laughs softly and reaches out to still his hands, lacing her fingers through his once more. "He won't. You have heard him – he will get used to this, to _us_, it will merely take him some time."

When he still doesn't look convinced, she adds, "He wouldn't hurt you, simply because he knows that he would hurt me, too, if he did. He knows how I feel about you. He's seen how I've suffered, those last months, he just didn't know that you were the cause until today."

Fili grimaces. "I'm sorry the whole thing took so much longer than I thought. We kept running into trouble – goblins, trolls, more goblins, and then some truly unbelievable things happened..." He breaks off, realizing that he's started rambling. "I have so much to tell you," he concludes a bit sheepishly.

"And I you," Sigrid replies, smiling.

"Starting with who this Ulf person is?"

She laughs, a teasing twinkle in her eyes. "If you ask very nicely, perhaps. But for now, I think that there is something else you intended to ask me."

It takes him a moment to grasp her meaning, but then he grins knowingly. Ah, yes. There's that, still.

With a little more flourish than strictly necessary, he lowers himself onto one knee in front of her, and takes her hand in his. Despite his playful demeanor, his tone is quite earnest when he speaks. "Will you, Sigrid, do me the honor of becoming my wife and allow me to love, to cherish, to worship you on every day of the life that we shall share with each other?"

Her teasing smile from a few moments ago turns a little tearful at that. "Yes," she says firmly and without so much as a moment's hesitation. "A thousand times yes."

Fíli remains in his position on the ground for a little longer. "Even if your father does not stop hunting me until he finally has my head on a pike for defiling his daughter?"

Sigrid's bright laughter echoes through the quiet of the early evening. "He won't, but yes, I will love you still, even if you wind up _another_ head shorter than me."

"And if I keep running into misfortunes? Poisonings, goblin attacks, major and minor accidents... those things appear to have become recurring themes in my life."

"Even then," Sigrid returns patiently.

"And if old age intensifies those traits my kind is so famous for? If I become a grumpy, rude, quarrelsome old Dwarf?"

"I cannot imagine that, but yes, even then." Her patience apparently running thin, Sigrid pulls him to his feet, her hands coming to rest on his shoulders as he stands before her and gazes up into her lovely, hazel eyes with nothing but love filling his heart, to the very brim. "And now, will you finally be quiet and kiss me?" she asks.

And that is precisely what he does. Over, and over, and over again.


	31. Epilogue - Day 365

**Epilogue**

Three hundred and sixty-five days since the battle fought at the foot of the Lonely Mountain. One whole year. For more than half of it, Fíli thought his brother dead, lost to the senseless violence of war. The other half, he has spent rebuilding his relationship with Kíli and repairing the rift caused by Kíli's impulsive actions.

Today he receives a raven from Mirkwood. Leaning with his shoulder against the window frame, he uses what is left of the fading daylight to read the letter written in his brother's familiar, slightly uneven handwriting. Fíli grins to himself as he peruses Kíli's message, satisfied that his little scheme has played out as he hoped it would.

'Brother mine,' Kíli writes, 'you've done it, then, knocked me out of my chair with the contents of your last letter. Aside from a sore backside, I now have my bruised pride to contend with, as Tauriel won't cease making fun of me for this little mishap of mine. You couldn't have said something when we last saw each other, a few weeks ago, could you? Then again, I suppose I do deserve some sort of retribution for getting married alone and in secret and to an Elf, no less. Still, to receive an invitation to your wedding when I was merely expecting an ordinary letter was a bit of a shock. But I believe that was what you were aiming at, am I right?

'So – the Bowman's daughter. I ought to be surprised, probably, but find that I am not, not entirely, no. My memory of those days at Lake-town is a bit hazy due to circumstances which I need not remind you of and those moments during which my head was not addled by fever, I spent with my attention mostly focused on another female – yes, you, Tauriel, and now stop reading over my shoulder, it distracts me and makes me misspell words all the time.

'Anyway, from what I do remember of your young bride, I should say that you are very well suited. It does surprise me that Bard has let you live long enough to propose and plan a marriage, but I am sure that will be a tale for another time.

'Of course we'll come to your wedding, I wouldn't miss that for the world. And you're right, of course, it is time that I finally showed my – what did you call it? – my 'cowardly arse' at Erebor. Until that happens, please give my best to Mum and my sincerest congratulations to Sigrid. I couldn't be any happier for you both. Your reckless idiot of a brother, Kíli.'

With the letter still in hand, Fili lifts his gaze to the shadows outside that are growing longer by the minute, his eyes settling on the black mass of trees filling a good portion of the lands between Erebor and the Misty Mountains. It's only been a few weeks since he met Kíli at the edge of Mirkwood, but already he feels a familiar yearning stir in his chest after reading his brother's teasing, heartfelt words. It won't be so long until their next meeting, but still, having to wait for those instances instead of simply being able to turn around and seek out his brother like he used to do for most of his life will take some getting used to.

Behind him, his door opens and closes in quick succession and Fíli sighs contentedly when a pair of arms sneaks around his midsection and he leans back into Sigrid's embrace. "I thought you might not come today."

She turns her head to press a gentle kiss to the side of his neck, tickling him with her warm breath when she speaks. "I'm afraid I cannot stay long. I persuaded Óin to let me go a few minutes early, but Da has taken great pains to remind me that he expects me home in time for dinner."

Fíli covers her hands with his. "I'll take whatever I can get."

As it turns out, conducting a relationship in secret, while nerve-wrecking at times, also has its advantages. Since their engagement has become official, meetings like the ones they used to have before Fíli's journey to Ered Luin have become all but impossible. Now that Bard knows what to look for, Sigrid's usual strategies have been rendered ineffective with regard to securing longer intervals of privacy for her and Fíli. With Thad and Flad having elected to stay at the Blue Mountains for a year to recover from the shock that Thad's almost-death has given them, their most enthusiastic accomplices are now unavailable to them, making any previously arranged meetings very hard to come by. As a consequence, they have had to make do with stolen moments such as this one right now.

On the whole, though, the announcement that the King under the Mountain will wed no Dwarf woman, but a daughter of Men, has caused much less of a spectacle than Fíli both feared and expected. To those closest to him, his true feelings had evidently been apparent for a long time and he felt rather foolish when he observed the complete lack of shock in his brethren's reactions to the disclosure of his intentions. Imagine his bewilderment as he watched Balin grudgingly hand over a small stack of coins to a gleeful Dwalin.

"Really? You, of all people?" Fíli exclaimed and Balin at least had the decency to look a little guilty.

Bombur then chose that particular moment to start awake from a little mid-morning nap with a loud grunt and a frantic look around. "What's for dinner?" he asked, thereby effectively ending the whole conversation.

So, yes. That was that over and done with. Of course there were those, too, who were not overly enthusiastic about Fíli's choice and he suspects that the voices questioning the unconventional match made by their king will never be entirely silenced. He will never hesitate to fight for his love, to stand up against the prejudices he keeps having thrust towards him, but sometimes he cannot help but think that the next person to lament a future in which the throne is occupied by a king only half Dwarven, will wind up with a broken nose.

As frustrating as the last months have been at times, though, Fíli knows that it will be worth it in the end. In a few weeks, he will make Sigrid his wife and they will have all the time in the world to make up for those months of hurried exchanges, longing looks and tiresome discussions.

And until then... well, he will just have to make do with what is given to him. Turning around in Sigrid's embrace, he tilts his head back, his eyes traveling over the features he has come to know so well and of which he can yet never seem to get enough. Not for the first time he marvels at how Sigrid has changed since that first day, back at Lake-town. It may not be apparent to a casual observer, for she still dresses in the same modest, practical clothes as when they met, with the exception of the occasional speck of color in the form of a shawl or one of the few pieces of dainty jewellery Fíli has managed to persuade her to accept since their official engagement. If one were to take Tilda's word at face value (which, in itself, is a bit of a risky undertaking), Sigrid's wedding dress will be a wholly different matter, a robe truly befitting a queen. But even if that turns out to be case in the end, Fíli will always picture his bride like this – unadorned, and yet more beautiful than the most perfect of gemstones, cut to perfection, but, eventually, boring to look at.

No, the changes which he has observed in his love over time are of a different nature. The girl he met a little over a year ago, she's not gone, no – he can still see her looking back at him whenever he gets lost in Sigrid's expressive hazel eyes. But she has blossomed into a young woman now who has found her place in life, a woman who has found her calling, who has found love (even if in the unlikeliest of places) and who is now able to look back at the world with faith in herself and her abilities. She was always strong, his Sigrid, stronger than anyone gave her credit for, but she's even stronger now and on many days Fíli feels humbled by her easy acceptance, her unwavering faith in him, when he lays his many burdens down at her feet at the end of a long day and she receives him in her embrace not as the king is expected to be, but as the Dwarf he aspires to be.

And now she's smiling down at him, she who has proved to be his anchor during one of his life's worst tempests, the cornerstone of his life when everything had gone into disarray, and he feels his heart expand in his chest. Things are looking much more ordered now, and, by some miracle, what he had thought beyond his grasp forever has been returned to him. Still, he will neither forget those darker days, nor the brightness with which her light shone for him then. They may be only at the beginning of their shared journey, but he already knows that no matter where their paths may lead them, they will walk them together with steady feet and firm hearts.

The shadow of a frown passes over Sigrid's face as she tries to grasp at the thoughts flitting though his mind in those moments, catching some, but not all of them. "Are you quite alright?"

His eyes stray from her face, and he turns his head to look over his shoulder. Outside his window darkness has fallen almost completely now, and the vague shapes of the lands below are overlaid by the reflections of Sigrid and himself in the window glass. And for a moment it is as if he can see Kíli standing right there, beside them, looking back at him with a knowing smile stretching his lips. As their eyes meet, his vision of Kíli inclines his head in a nod, his gaze not leaving that of his brother. When Fíli turns back around to look at Sigrid, he, too, is smiling.

"Yes," he says, taking her hand and raising it to his mouth, his lips brushing the delicate ring he put on her finger a few weeks after his return from Ered Luin. "Yes. All is well."

And he's never been more sincere about that in his whole life.

The End.

_A/N: That's it! Thank you for undertaking this journey with me and sticking with it to the end. When I started writing this I thought it would be a 20k story, 30k at the most, and look what we've ended up with. Exploring those characters has been great fun and a good way for me to distract myself from my obsession with Kíli and Tauriel. Speaking of which, I'm currently working on a one-shot set five years after The Gift. So if you're still aboard that ship, I'm right there with you and hope to be posting something soon! _


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